


Trust and Providence

by Rachel Smith Cobleigh (reveilles)



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Disabled Character, Character of Faith, Crisis of Faith, Disabled Character, Drama, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Interwar Period, Loss of Faith, Married People in Love, Married Sex, No Canon Knowledge Needed, Past Sexual Assault, Philosophy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Rape Recovery, Rational Fic, Religion, Romance, STEAMM - Freeform, Sexual Content, World War I, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 402,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveilles/pseuds/Rachel%20Smith%20Cobleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Mary had trusted Matthew with her secret and immediately accepted his first proposal? An alternate universe starting from episode 1x06, interwoven with canon, that spans from 1914 - 1971. Major Sybil/Tom and some Edith/Anthony, Anna/Bates, Cora/Robert, Carson/Hughes. Includes depictions of intimacy, faith and philosophy, strong language, disturbing wartime imagery, racial slurs, and character death (but Mary/Matthew and Sybil/Tom end happily!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART I: AFTERMATH - Chapter 1

TRUST AND PROVIDENCE

A  _Downton Abbey_  story

by Rachel Smith Cobleigh

* * *

PART I: AFTERMATH

* * *

_1_

**May 1914**

As the great house returned to the calm of its evening routine, the two of them sat at a corner of the long mahogany table in the richly-panelled dining room, both making a show of nonchalance and civility whilst being acutely aware of the other's presence.

Matthew unstoppered the decanter and smiled. "We can drink to Sybil's safe return."

"Why not?" Mary replied as Matthew filled his glass, and then she realised that it was the only one available, not enough for both of them to toast. She moved to stand up. "I'll ring for a glass."

"Never mind that," he said, stopping her. "Here." He handed the filled glass to her and moved to pour wine into his water glass. She stared at it, frozen in shock at the breach of protocol for a moment, and then she smiled and leaned forward.

"You're not very fastidious about doing things properly, are you?"

He confirmed her observation with a soft snort. "Are you?"

"Less than you might think." They toasted each other and then took a sip from their respective glasses.

Mary looked at hers as she set it down, aware of the unusual intimacy of their situation. There was something enticing about the way he flouted custom in the house, and she wondered what else he might be willing to set aside. She was not sure if he knew that they were already ignoring propriety in being alone together behind closed doors, given that Papa had—probably unthinkingly—encouraged the situation.

 _She_  knew better; she ought to let Matthew eat in peace, but she'd missed his company for months and she had only herself to blame. Her triumph at briefly winning the boring Sir Anthony's attention away from Edith had been a hollow victory. Matthew had begged off immediately afterwards, and she'd been left behind to watch his receding form as he stalked angrily into the night. It was only then that she realised she had trampled on the honest affections of a good man.

Matthew lifted the cover off the plate of sandwiches and his stomach rumbled at the sight. It had been kind of Mary to think of him. He glanced at her, wondering what she was thinking.

"Are you at all political?" he asked. Sybil's proclivities were well-known; Mary's, on the other hand, were, typically, kept close to the vest.

"Yes," she answered, selecting a strawberry and toying with it. "But with a hung Parliament, it's hard to get excited about a by-election. You know nothing will change, whoever gets in."

Matthew smiled in acknowledgement. Trust Mary to cut straight to the heart of the matter without being distracted by idealism or hope. Her calm clarity of thought was refreshing after all the heightened irrationality at the rally.

"It's hard not to hope for change, nevertheless," he said, picking up a sandwich. "Women's suffrage is long overdue."

"You're a suffragist?" she asked, amused. "You don't strike me as a radical."

He chewed and swallowed. "Women getting the vote isn't radical; it's just right."

"Defender of the downtrodden," she observed with a smile, and popped the strawberry into her mouth. He caught himself staring her lips and he forced his gaze down to the sandwich tray instead.

He smirked, pushing aside his self-consciousness. "If the title fits…"

Mary ducked her head with a smile. They ate in silence for a short while, Matthew wondering what to say next and Mary imagining the scene at the rally. The idea of him knocking a man down intrigued her. She couldn't quite reconcile it with his gentle manner.

"Thank you for coming to Sybil's rescue," she said, catching him with his glass in mid-air as he realised that he'd been staring at a tendril of dark hair that curled at the nape of her neck. "You were very brave. She told me you knocked a man down."

He wrenched his mind back to the day's events and mentally kicked himself for being so distracted. She wasn't interested in him in that way, he reminded himself; acting like a besotted fool wouldn't recommend him in the slightest. The least he could do was give her the courtesy of rational conversation. He smiled tightly. He couldn't deny that he was proud to have defended her sister, but as the man he'd hit had also knocked Sybil down when he fell, Matthew didn't feel like a hero.

"I hope I did my duty," he said, covering his discomfort with a sip from his glass.

"Are you a creature of duty?"

He paused at the oddity of the question: the conversation had taken a turn, but he wasn't sure of its direction. He set down his glass.

"Not entirely," he said with a frown. Where was she going with this? Curiosity and foreboding mixed together.

Mary's expression shifted subtly. "When you laugh with me, or flirt with me—" His whole being tightened at her delicate pause. "—is that a duty? Are you conforming to the fitness of things, doing what's expected?"

He stared at her. Had he just heard her correctly? She had never named  _them_  before, had never been so bold with him. They had only just begun to mend their relationship after months of tense standoff due to her cruel game with the hapless Sir Anthony. Equal parts thrill and frustration rose within Matthew. He narrowed his eyes, searching for the trap that surely awaited him. Engaging in verbal swordplay with Mary was an arousing and dangerous sport. He settled for ending this game before she wounded him again.

"Don't play with me," he warned. "I don't deserve it. Not from you."

She looked away from him, conceding the point. He picked up his glass to take another sip of wine before he ate a final sandwich, realising that it would probably be best if he ended this meal as quickly as possible. Before the glass had even reached his lips, however, Mary had taken a different tack.

"You must be careful not to break Sybil's heart. I think she has a crush on you."

He set down his glass. He'd never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. Sybil no more had a crush on him than Mary did. This was no mere defence of her sister: Mary was still playing with him. Very well. If she wanted to play, then he would call her game for what it was: a meaningless flirtation.

"That's something no one could accuse you of," he said.

She looked down quickly, suddenly toying with her necklace in a way that struck him as uncharacteristically nervous. "Oh, I don't know," she said in a low tone. Her eyes flickered back up to his.

He paused as his heart skipped a beat and then hardened in disbelief. He would not fall for this again.

"I assume you speak in a spirit of mockery," he accused, but he couldn't prevent the note of uncertainty that entered his voice.

"You should have more faith," she said, her eyes beckoning to him.

Why did she persist in this reinvention of the truth? He leaned forward in challenge.

"Shall I remind you of some of the choicest remarks you made about me when I arrived here?" he asked. She broke from his gaze, the fingers that toyed with her necklace growing more agitated, but he was not finished. "Because they live in my memory as fresh as the day they were spoken."

 _You wounded me,_  he willed her to understand.  _This is not a game._

"Oh Matthew, what am I always telling you?" She met his eyes undaunted, a warmth even sparkling in her own. Her fingers stilled. "You must pay no attention to the things I say."

Time held for a long moment as he stared at her, tasting spice on his tongue—no,  _wanting_  to taste her spice on his tongue. His eyes flickered helplessly down to her lips, then back up to her eyes in mute question. Was she truly saying what he thought she was?

_Stop listening to my words and listen to my heart instead._

_I want you._

Oh God.

He moved; she moved, and their mouths met in mutual hunger. He felt a rush of sensation, his lips and tongue flooding him with familiar and foreign tastes and soft textures that made the insides of his mouth tingle and narrowed his focus almost unbearably. This was no chaste first kiss as he had once imagined it would be, but a heady, equally hungry exploration. She matched him press for press, the stroke of her tongue against his shocking him as she met him without hesitation. He challenged her, tasted her; she ran her tongue along his bottom lip and surprised him with the acute sensitivity at the corner of his mouth. His awareness widened to take in the way her fingers curled into the hair behind his ear, making his scalp prickle pleasantly under her touch. Her thumb bumped against his earlobe as her fingers drifted down his neck, raising gooseflesh there that ran down his back, tingling. The fingers of her other hand clutched his forearm just below where his elbow still rested on the table…and his other hand cupped her waist. Her  _waist_. Her body was warm under the thin, soft fabric of her dress and his mind spun wildly at the prospect. His trousers felt uncomfortably tight, his clothes suddenly too warm against his skin. He was filled with the mad urge to remove them, which he suppressed with some shock at himself, then amusement. She wanted him as much as he wanted her! And in a sudden rush of awareness, he knew what he wanted with absolute certainty.

Mary's body hummed and her heart hammered in her chest, every flick of his tongue and press of his lips making her head spin. He kissed like he duelled: with quick responses that were at once gentle and arousing. His skin smelled warm and clean and uniquely  _him_ , and the slight rasp at the edges of his lips unexpectedly reminded her of his masculinity. Heat coiled deep within her at the awareness and she felt a sudden fluttering squeeze there that took her entirely by surprise. She nearly broke the kiss with a gasp, but she stilled her lips and held them against his at the last moment, hoping that he hadn't noticed her falter. She engaged him all the more to compensate, hungry to repeat the sensation and eager to match his ardour, for she was certain he could not feel more than she did in this moment and she wanted him to know it, to know that her blossoming joy was due entirely to him. Dear God, they were kissing! A slight sting of the scent of his sweat swept into her nostrils and she wanted to press herself closer to him, to breathe in his skin with an open mouth. Her head spun. It had never for one instant felt like this with Kemal—

Hot, sick guilt washed over her and she pulled away from lips that she ached for immediately.

_Kemal._

She knew in an instant, in a rush of a hundred thoughts all meeting in one, terrible truth, that she did not deserve Matthew. He was too good for her. He was kind and clever, without pretence or guile—so unlike herself.

Her artfulness was what had gotten her into this bind in the first place. Since her debutante Season, she had excelled at attracting men and had revelled in her newfound power, mastering the flirtations and the games. Although she enjoyed the chase, her heart had never been touched, and her desires were only occasionally roused; the sensation always passed soon after each brief encounter with an awkward, overeager, or stuffy suitor. She came to subtly resent them all, these men whose fortunes were her only salvation, her only purpose.

Against this backdrop of formal English gentlemen, Kemal Pamuk had struck her through. When Evelyn Napier, the current frontrunner in her stable of suitors, had brought along his friend Mr Pamuk to a hunt that her father was hosting, she had expected to meet some nervous little foreigner, his hair reeking of pomade. Instead, the young Turkish diplomat's first appearance on his spirited charger had taken her breath away. With his swarthy skin, and dark eyes that were pools of knowing humour and secret enticements, she had experienced for the first time what it was to be shockingly drawn to a man. She had come alive in a new way, and she burned when she saw how quickly he perceived it.

Within minutes, the expected flirtations had begun, and Kemal Pamuk was equally as skilled at playing the game. Their verbal parries and thrusts continued into the evening, her attention caught only by him. Evelyn Napier and Matthew Crawley were also present at the family dinner, of course, but they were dreadfully dull by comparison. She was flush with pride at having captured the enticing Mr Pamuk's attention so easily, and all was moving along delightfully until he led her into the small library on some innocent pretext and suddenly pressed a fierce, demanding kiss upon her.

It wasn't her first kiss, of course, but it also wasn't a very pleasant one. He'd quite banged her head against the bookcase, and he had taken her so thoroughly by surprise that her lips nearly felt bruised when he finally drew back, amidst her protests.

This was not at all what she'd intended for the evening, and she had let him know—in no uncertain terms, she thought—that she wasn't that sort of woman. She had walked out, straight-backed and with her head held high, convinced that that was the end of it.

But it hadn't been. And when he'd come to her room late that night—how had he managed to invade her privacy?—the force of his dangerously alluring presence had finally overcome her reservations, and she had embraced him, uncertain and yet eagerly aroused...

Her fate had been sealed that very night, when she understood, only too late, how much she had sacrificed for so little gain.

Kemal had died upon her. It had taken all of her strength to dislodge him, and then another desperate clutch at sanity to keep her wits about her as she stood staring in horror at his unmoving body. Perhaps he'd died for his sin, but her curse was to live with it.

She'd hidden her disgrace from everyone except her loyal maid, Anna, and her mother, for she had required their help to move the young diplomat's body back to his room before the rest of the house awoke and discovered he was missing.

The household reacted with shock to the discovery of the body, all while Mary remained silent, watching the tableau play out as expected. Official condolences were sent to the Turkish Embassy and to Kemal's family, but no one mourned for her, and Mary did not allow herself to mourn, either. She could not be seen to be more moved than was appropriate for a mere acquaintance, a guest who had stayed at the house for only one night. She did not know what to feel, so she simply chose not to feel anything, whenever she could manage it. Her walls usually broke down at night, however, and then she was not sure for whom she mourned. She had barely known him, after all; why did it hurt so?

But time had passed, the months going on, and she returned to the endless series of social calls and charity events, and the day-to-day troubles and intrigues of her family home. Granny had kicked up a fresh round of fuss about the entail, finally exasperated with her son's lack of decisive action in the matter. Granny, the only one who ever seemed to take Mary's side.

So against all reason and potentially to his own detriment, Matthew had investigated how to break the entail, which required her father's title, the bulk of his wealth, and all of his lands to pass to Matthew—who, despite being the nearest male relative, was only distantly related to the family. Most men, upon unexpectedly discovering that they would inherit an aristocratic title and a vast fortune, would have been only too willing to revel in it, and to use their newfound power against the previous earl's female relatives, who would effectively be left paupers upon their patriarch's death.

Thus Mary had expected Matthew to wield his power over her, knowing that her mother, grandmother, and any unmarried sisters would be entirely dependent upon her, as the eldest, to marry well so that she could provide for them after her father's death.

But instead, Matthew had immediately understood what was at stake, and what her family expected of her—marrying him to keep the money in the family—and he had gone to great lengths to befriend her and help her win some power back. He hadn't tried to pressure her, or seduce her, or even seriously flirt with her. Instead, he showed her respect and he asked insightful questions, actually  _listening_  to her answers. It had been a novel sensation; few men, if any, looked at her as though she had anything important to say.

When Matthew had discovered that it was effectively impossible to break the entail, however—it would require a private bill in Parliament, and even then it wouldn't be passed unless the integrity of the estate were under substantial threat—he had explained the legal nuances to Granny and to herself; and most notably, he had done so in a gentle voice, his expression pained.

When she had cried out in anger and frustration at being passed over and seen as a source of disappointment for the whole of her life, he had told her that she mattered a great deal. She  _mattered_  to him; he saw  _her_ ; he understood; he ached with regret that he should find himself standing in her rightful place: not just in terms of the inheritance, but also in terms of her father's respect and regard.

That pain had begun at the cusp of her adulthood when her whole dreadful predicament had been coldly explained to her: Mary, you will not inherit Downton unless you marry your cousin Patrick, so you must marry your cousin Patrick. There are to be no suitors, no thought of love, merely expedience; your worth is of so little value that you are only a means to an heir for Patrick. You must wait in the shadows and practise the arts of society and beauty to woo him, hidden, voiceless, until the day your father and your intended beckon you out and you are transferred from one man to the other like a pretty possession. Your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, your self, are of no interest in this transaction. This must be done to preserve the family, the future of the estate, the title, the role. You will become Countess, Lady Grantham: queen of the county, presiding over your little kingdom at the sufferance of your lord. It is a great honour, Mary: you should be grateful. You will be groomed for this your whole life and you will make your father proud. Come here and give your Papa a kiss; now off to bed with you.

But Matthew, he  _saw_  her: her true self. He saw through her deceptions and her pretences, her armour and her attacks. He saw her pain and it hurt him, too. Whenever she thought of men in general, of how tedious or predictable or boorish or generally infuriating they were, some part of her always remembered  _but Matthew isn't like that…_  She would acknowledge it and then brush it aside and continue on in her generalisation: but everyone  _else_  was. How had Matthew so thoroughly wormed his way past her defences? Hadn't they always disliked each other? And then they had begun to share looks of instant understanding across the dinner table, and to laugh together. He was well-read, able to meet each challenge she'd posed him, and she each one that he'd volleyed back. There was a shared love of literature and an equal interest in dissecting it. He could be an uncomfortably acute observer of character.

The way he saw the world was maddening at times, but on later reflection she always found her heart tugged, sometimes unwillingly, to acknowledge that perhaps he was right. What he valued had true value: it was not propped up merely by centuries of tradition and unquestioning acceptance. He thought about the world; he had strong convictions; he wasn't afraid to speak them out even if it put him at a disadvantage. Yes, he could be frightfully naïve and a prig, but the more she'd gotten to know him, the more she had come to respect him. He even accepted correction well: she'd seen her father take him to task, and Matthew had borne up under it with surprising poise for so middle-class a person. She would be hard pressed to name half a dozen men of her acquaintance, lords or heirs all, whom she could imagine responding with such grace to correction. For all their airs and graces, Matthew was the true gentleman, and this realisation shocked her. How far from a true noblewoman  _she_  was!

She burned with broken shame in the rush of all these thoughts, in the heartbeats after their lips parted. His warm forehead rested against hers and she felt his breath run across her open lips. His breathing was heavy and quick. He swallowed and licked his lips, pulling back, and she immediately felt the loss of his warmth. He grasped her hands in his own, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned nearer again. His eyes sought out hers, which she raised to meet his only reluctantly, because she feared that he would see her secret exposed in them.  _God, his eyes were so beautiful._  She almost cringed away in her feeling of intense unworthiness.

"Marry me," he breathed.

She blinked. Had she just heard him correctly? Had he really just  _proposed?_  Disbelief, elation, internal mockery at how ludicrous it was to think that she had truly heard him correctly, a mad and wild hope, anger, and helpless frustration all rose at once and warred within her. If she'd had to marry Patrick without a choice in the matter, then by God he was going to propose properly to her: she was going to have a perfectly impressive ring, and he was going down on one knee to say the right words and make her a formal and unambiguous offer that she would imperiously accept while looking down at him—probably her one opportunity to do so. That was what she had imagined: a scene of the utmost propriety and the brief sense of being worth at least a proper proposal. Love didn't enter into it; it was the due of a Lady and she would have it that way and he would not deny her.

But Patrick was dead, lost with the Titanic, and here  _Matthew_  was, sitting in a chair opposite her with his mouth hanging open like a guppy and not even  _asking_  her, for God's sake, but  _commanding_  her. No knee, no ring, no proper words, no permission from her father, and no warning.

"After only one kiss?" she demanded in disbelief, her voice suddenly sharp and hard in the stillness of the room.

Matthew, infuriatingly, smiled in what she could only think of as a very male way, and said, "Do you require another?" as he leaned back in to claim her lips once more.

Her righteous indignation took a back seat at the prospect of tasting him again, and now his grip on her hands tightened and relaxed in time with the rhythm of his kiss and her fingers slipped between his, brushing against his warm skin. She slid her fingertips up his wrists and under the edges of his cuffs; his palms cupped her wrists by the time their mouths broke apart. She paused to catch her breath, her eyes falling to fix on the sight of her fingertips hidden beneath his shirt, resting against the soft, light hairs peeking out from under the cuffs.

"Well?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver pleasantly. She swallowed.

"It's all…very sudden," she managed, stalling, dreading, wanting so badly and yet dying inside as she knew that she would never have.  _God_ , she didn't deserve him. What was she doing, leading him on in this…achingly pleasurable…way? She couldn't accept him without telling him about Kemal, but she recoiled from the very idea of doing so. She would be horribly exposed and he would despise her. She couldn't bear to see the warmth in his eyes turn to cold and righteous censure as he pulled away from her, never to return. She needed distance so she could think.

Matthew saw Mary withdrawing even as she clutched his wrists, and he immediately felt an idiot for pressuring her so suddenly like this. His proposal had made perfect sense to him in the moment, but they had run from cold to hot without warning. He had not courted her properly. Of course she couldn't feel for him yet as intensely as he felt for her; he'd been aware of his attraction to her for nigh on two years now and had grown accustomed to its near-daily presence. But what did she feel? Had she even wanted to kiss him this evening or had he imposed himself on her?

No—not that: her response had been unmistakable. But perhaps her attraction to him was a recent, tentative thing. He should treat it as fragile and not trample on her so thoughtlessly.

"I'm sorry! Of course you needn't answer right now," he assured her, loosening his grip on her wrists and sitting back slightly. "I can wait for as long as you need."

Mary's eyes widened as she considered the escape that he was offering. She could tell him that she needed to think about it— _Hah!_  something inside of her scoffed—and then she wouldn't have to tell him about Kemal yet. She could wait, she could figure something out, perhaps talk to her mother, or to Granny, and ask for their advice. She could get the distance she suddenly both dreaded and craved.

She wanted to stand up and draw this evening to a close—she had so much to consider!—but as she turned the possibilities over in her mind, she knew with a heavy, sinking feeling that there was no way out of this hell she had created for herself, no advice that anyone else could give her that would make this easier to navigate. Either she must refuse him or she must tell him and then he would refuse her. Delay would achieve nothing except to inflict further pain on them both. Not telling him was not an option; she could not catch him with a lie. Her stomach tightened and lurched and she felt a sudden welling of hot tears, which she quickly covered with her hands, pulling them abruptly from his grasp to do so.

She heard his soft inhalation of breath, his shock. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, Mary, please…please forgive me. I'm new at this," she heard him say, a rising tremor at the end of his words.

Oh God,  _he_  was apologising to  _her_.

"I can't—" she choked out, her own voice breaking. Her hands were pressed against her face to hide her tears, but it was a fruitless endeavour, if she were to be honest.  _Honest_ , how laughable. This thought brought about a new burn of tears. Her eyes and throat stung from the effort of preventing them falling.

Matthew waited for her in agonised silence, until he finally asked, "You can't—what?" He dreaded hearing her answer.

She shook her head, her hands still covering her face. "I'm no good for you," she whispered.

He couldn't believe what he had heard. Lady Mary Crawley not good enough for  _him_? He nearly laughed out loud at the very idea, but he stopped before he wounded her or made an even greater fool of himself.

He ran his fingers along the edges of her hands, trying to convince her to draw them away from her lovely face so that he could get a clear look at her. He had made her cry, which was the last thing that he ever expected the cool Lady Mary to do, and he felt a right brute.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Of course you're good enough for me! I'm a middle-class lawyer, for goodness' sake. I should never have presumed—"

"No," she cut him off, dropping one hand to flutter briefly against his knee before pulling it back as though burned. She tried to wipe at her eyes with her other hand, but she couldn't catch all of her tears.

The sight stabbed his chest with a thousand tiny pinpricks of shame. What could he do? He settled for the first reasonable thought that occurred to him and he reached back to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket. He held it out to her, a white flag in an inadequate peace-offering.

"Here," he said. She gave a soft breath of a laugh and took it, pressing her hands once more to her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and straightening her back as she dried her eyes. "I don't know what came over me."

His eyes narrowed. "I find that hard to believe."

Her gaze shot up to him and he was surprised to discover shame in her eyes. No; he must have been mistaken.

She let out another bitter laugh and dropped her hands to her lap in frustration. "Perhaps I do know, then, but I can't—" she broke off.

"You can't what?"

"I can't speak of it."

He reached for her hands again, one still clutching the dampened handkerchief. "Yes, you can," he said. "Or aren't we friends enough for that?"

"Oh, Matthew! Have we ever truly been friends?"

He had no answer to that.

She shook her head, trying to draw her hands away from his. He let her go.

"Is that a no, then?" he pushed out through a painfully tight throat, sure that once he was out of her presence he wouldn't be able to stop his own tears. All his efforts were for naught again, but this time the wounds were so deep that he felt an almost physical pain in his chest. It was a good thing that the path to Crawley House was dark and generally deserted at this time of night.

"No, it's not," she said quickly, leaning towards him when he turned in his chair to stand up. Her eyes were wide and filled with pain, and it arrested him. She wasn't playing, he realised. She was struggling with something. He turned back to her again, his body tense, afraid of another blow.

"What is it then, Mary?"

After a long moment of staring at him in silence, she suddenly stood up and moved away from him. "I can't tell you!"

He rose to follow her. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because you would despise me and that I could not bear!" Her back was still to him.

He couldn't imagine ever despising this maddening, beautiful woman. He took a step closer to her and laid a hand on her upper arm. He felt her tremble through the thin fabric.

"Even so, please tell me," he said. Although she remained silent before him, she did not move away from his touch. "Let me share your burden, Mary, please."

His words seemed to break something in her and she spun round to face him, her eyes flashing. "You can't share my burden, Matthew! It's my shame to bear!"

"I already  _am_  sharing it, Mary."

The truth of his words cut her to the quick and her eyes widened. Oh God, he was right. The moment she'd kissed him, she had dragged him into her circle of hell. He could no more escape the repercussions of her foolishness now than she could. If she stopped now, she would be wounding him more deeply than she ever had before. But if she pressed forward and told him the truth, would it hurt him even more? She didn't know the answer, and she hated this moment with every fibre of her being. Why, oh why, had she ever flirted with Kemal? He had meant nothing to her, and he had imposed himself on her, and she was angry at him even though he was dead.

Dead! As irrational as she knew it to be, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was cursed, that Kemal had died because of her, that there was something terribly wrong with her, and that Matthew could suffer the same fate at her hands. It was utterly ridiculous, and yet it filled her with an awful panic. Matthew didn't deserve such a fate! She had to stop him coming any closer; surely breaking it off with him now would be the more humane course to take. As she opened her mouth to say the words that would end this beautiful, terrible evening, he stepped close to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. The gesture was so like Papa's from her childhood that a sob rose suddenly in her throat and her resolve fled. A feeling of safety and protection tried to flood through her even as she trembled from the force of her fear.

"I love you, Mary," Matthew said. "I would never—I  _could_  never—despise you."

She stared up at him with wide eyes. First a kiss—such a kiss!—then a proposal, and now this? She felt her knees weaken in shock and she quickly placed her hands on his chest to steady herself.

"Tell me, Mary, please."

She wanted to protest, to dodge, to avoid, to run away and never wound him again, but she couldn't hide from him any longer. He had laid himself bare before her; it was only right for her to do the same. If he rejected her, she would understand. She would accept her fate, because she could not change it. She never could.

"I took a lover. Kemal Pamuk," she forced out, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Shock froze Matthew's features, but she pressed on. "And he died…" she choked, her posture deflating, "…in my bed."

All her fears were confirmed when she felt Matthew's hands drop away from where they had rested on her upper arms, the uncovered skin now cold. He took a step back from her and her hands fell away from his chest. She felt alone and exposed. She did not pursue him as he backed further away; she did not beg him for forgiveness; she did not cry anew. Now that the words were out there between them, she felt a strange sense of relief. Her fate was fixed; all rested in Matthew's hands now. She would know one way or the other by the end of this evening if she would live with a broken heart or a whole one, as she realised in a blinding flash that she never quite felt wholly herself when Matthew wasn't nearby. In these last months, she'd missed him acutely, so much more than she would miss a mere friend. She had been right earlier: he had never been just her friend. Without her knowing quite how, he had become someone far dearer and more necessary to her than that.

She realised all of this with a clarity of truth that brought with it a strange peace, even as she watched his shocked face and waited.

His features were frozen as he took in what she had told him. He was no doubt imagining the events of that awful night. She wanted to reassure him but had nothing to offer, so she remained silent. He had been willing to wait for her answer earlier; she could do him the same courtesy now, even though her skin crawled in fearful anticipation.

He turned his back on her and stepped further away and her heart fell. Her breathing felt too loud in the silence. She would lose him. It was no more than she deserved, but she was still struck by the terrible unfairness of it all. How foolish she'd been, a mere girl. She felt miles away now from the girl she had been then, even though the events had occurred only a few rooms away from where they now stood.

Matthew stood staring at the wall before him in shock, unable to stop the flood of unwanted images that Mary's words had elicited. His chest felt tight. As much as it stung to realise that he wouldn't be her first lover, her words worried him: the Turkish diplomat had  _died_  in her bed. How awful it must have been for her, for this to be her first experience of sexual intimacy!

_Was it her first experience?_

Matthew's blood ran cold.

_Persist._

_But Lord, what if Pamuk wasn't her first?_ Matthew wondered, anger rising in him.  _What if there were others? This sort of thing is commonplace amongst the upper classes, isn't it?_

All of those cold, businesslike marriages, arranged for fortune and title rather than love: he disapproved of them. Even His Majesty King Edward seemed to have kept a number of mistresses, if the speculation in the papers was to be believed, and that sort of behaviour encouraged others to follow suit, as if it were a matter of course. The prospect left a sour taste in Matthew's mouth, but what did he know? Far more disturbing was the personal notion of Mary—of Robert's family—involved in such indiscretions.

No; not Robert. He was a kind master and a man of integrity. Matthew had never seen the merest hint of such an inclination and couldn't imagine Robert doing so distasteful a thing. And Mary?—Matthew's heart rebelled at the very thought.

_But her life makes her angry, doesn't it? Wouldn't taking a lover be a way for her escape her frustration?_

Matthew frowned, recalling her words at the village fair more than a year earlier.  _Women like me don't have a life. We choose clothes and pay calls and work for charity and do the Season, but really, we're stuck in a waiting room until we marry._

 _No_ , he thought.  _Mary wouldn't take a lover merely to escape her frustration and boredom, would she? No..._  He'd thought he knew her better than that, but before this night, they hadn't exchanged more than a mere handful of words in months. It was laughable to think that he knew her at all. He only knew what he  _wished_  to be true.

_Persist._

Mary watched Matthew turn round part way and her breath caught in her throat. He seemed to be warring with himself. She wanted to cry out and demand a response from him, but she held her tongue. She owed him that courtesy, at least.

He finally settled on a thought. "Why?"

This was not what she was expecting. She had no answer.

Matthew looked at her. "Did you love him?"

"You mustn't try to—"

"Because if it was love—"

"How could it be love? I didn't know him!"

"Then why would you—"

"It was lust, Matthew!" His expression shifted in some unnameable way at this, but Mary pressed on. "Or a need for excitement or something in him that I—oh God, what difference does it make? I'm Tess of the d'Urbervilles to your Angel Clare. I have fallen. I'm no good for you!"

"Don't joke! Don't make yourself into something you're not, not when I'm trying to understand!"

Mary paused, her heart thudding in her chest. Had she heard him correctly? She focussed on him again. "Thank you for that. But the fact remains that I am made different by it. Things have changed between us."

Matthew looked at her. "Have they?"

Mary stared at him in disbelief. "How could they not?"

"Because I know you, Mary. This is not you."

Oh no, he was in denial. No, no, no. She must not allow him to ignore it. "But it is! I did it! I am impure!"

His face flashed with sudden anger. "Don't say that!"

"But it's true!"

He stepped swiftly towards her and clasped her upper arms again, the pressure of his hands underlining the importance that he gave his words. "Listen to me, Mary." His voice was low and rough. "You are not defined by one act. Perhaps you made a mistake, but you are more than the mistake!"

She shook her head. "This act  _does_  define me. I cannot escape that fact."

"Everyone is impure; we live in a fallen world."

She glared at him. "Don't quote Scripture at me."

He sighed. "Why do you let this one act define you?"

She stared at him, her frustration rising. It wasn't merely a matter of  _letting_  anything happen: it just did. She had recurring nightmares of being trapped under Kemal's dead body. Her own body would forever hold the memory of his touch. And worse even than her private shame, somehow—she didn't know how—there were whispers in London that she was not virtuous. People looked at her differently and closed their doors to her. Why couldn't Matthew understand that she couldn't  _help_  being defined by this one act?

She shook her head and looked away from him.

"Do you think I am without sin?" he asked.

She pulled her shoulders free, disbelieving. How could he be so blind? She couldn't imagine the righteous Matthew Crawley doing anything to compare to her own fall. Her voice was laced with sharp, mocking edges. "So you've given yourself to a woman whom you cared nothing for and even tried to refuse?"

He froze.

She frowned. Had she been right with her mocking barb? Suddenly the image of him in the arms of another woman filled her mouth with ashes and her stomach with pain, as her whole body screamed a protest. Dear God, this must be only a fraction of his own response to her confession, for hers was not imagined. She turned away, unable to face him any longer.

He came swiftly round beside her until he faced her and he took hold of her upper arms again, but this time the pressure was uncomfortable. She stared at him in shock as he bent to fix her in a gaze that was suddenly unbearably intense.

"Mary, did he force you?"

She shook her head and looked away. She'd chosen to give herself to Kemal; the fault was entirely hers.

"But you tried to refuse him?" Matthew's grip tightened further and she gasped and glared at him.

"You're hurting me," she said.

He let go of her instantly, apology in his expression before he fixed that gaze on her again. "Tell me what happened," he said, his tone suddenly cool.

She balked at the prospect. He wanted her to relive that awful night?

"Why?"

"Because I need to understand, Mary."

"But you  _do_  understand! I've told you everything that matters!"

"No," his eyes softened. "You haven't."

"Stop saying that! I'm not virtuous. I'm—"

"Mary," his voice took on a commanding tone that surprised her and again reminded her eerily of her father. Then Matthew's voice quieted. "A woman without virtue would not feel shame as you do. Her eyes would not be filled with such pain as I see in yours." His hand came up to touch the side of her face with aching gentleness.

She still could not let him avoid the truth; playing games with the word 'virtue' would not erase her past. She chose a word that would allow him no ambiguity. "I am no longer a virgin, Matthew. Don't play with me. I don't deserve it, not from you."

To her surprise, a small smile tugged at his lips before he became serious again. "I'm not playing with you and I'm not denying the facts of what you're telling me. I'm just not convinced of your interpretation of them. I can't reconcile the woman I see standing before me with the one you seem to see yourself as."

"Why not?"

"Because you are not that woman, Mary. You are warm, clever, strong—"

"Foolish."

He did laugh this time. "Yes."

Now she was affronted. "You agree so easily with that!"

"I've been a fool, too, Mary."

"Yes?" she snapped, sceptical that it could compare to her folly. "About what?"

"'They're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me!'" he quoted, with as affronted an expression as he could manage.

She actually giggled, surprising herself.

"I'm so glad you pushed in," he said softly, his other hand coming up to cup her elbow. She still clutched his handkerchief against her stomach, and she bumped her knuckles affectionately against his suit coat. His eyes rested on the side of her face, following the path of his hand as he moved it up to her temple. His fingers found a tendril of hair there to brush against. She closed her eyes, feeling tingling warmth at his touch, and swallowed hard. Strong, was she? She didn't feel it. She felt weak and weary and unworthy of his love.

"He pushed in," she said in nearly a whisper, and she felt Matthew's fingers still against her skin. Swallowing again, she opened her eyes and met his. They encouraged her to continue. "I don't know how he found my room, how he even knew which one was mine."

Matthew's eyebrows rose. Even he had no idea which room was hers; that oversight was intentional and entirely a good idea, in his opinion. He could only imagine what he'd be tempted to do otherwise.

"I was reading and suddenly, there he was." Her gaze fell into the middle distance.

Matthew rested his hand against the curve of her neck and waited for her to continue. She pressed through the rest of her story in a rush:

"I asked him to leave. He refused. I threatened to scream—" Matthew's fingers tightened at these words and then he relaxed them. "—and he said that it was too late: even if I screamed, a man would still be discovered in my bedroom and my reputation would still be tarnished." The black expression that took over Matthew's face shocked her, but his gentle fingers encouraged her to continue. "So I let him. Do what he wanted. And I kissed him back." Her face twisted at the memory. Kemal hadn't been violent, but he had been focussed on what he wanted from her. She hadn't been ready, she'd been a little afraid, and the unexpected pleasure that she'd experienced had faded too quickly after he had collapsed on top of her. She shuddered. "So you see, I  _am_  at fault."

"No!" The word escaped Matthew in a rush and he pulled her against his chest. "No, he took terrible advantage of you!" His arms tightened around her and after a moment of resistance, she relaxed into his embrace. He was so unlike Kemal! Matthew's hold was comforting, not demanding. "He was no gentleman. You must not blame yourself."

"But I let him—"

"You felt trapped. It was rape, Mary."

She pulled back in shock. "But he never forced me!"

"Physical force is not the only kind of coercion."

She trembled and leaned against him, only now realising that  _he_  was trembling as well. She moved her arms up to hold him in return and she felt him sigh. She marvelled at this moment: she had never expected anything close to this kind of response. Her best hope had been that he would look at her with disgust and ask for time to think about it. Then he might return days? weeks? later with a stern acceptance of her shame, which she would spend the rest of her days atoning for. Yet here he stood, holding her close, his breath stirring her hair, absolving her of all guilt. His words made her doubt herself, but she wasn't sure how to feel yet. She didn't feel comfortable with absolution.

"So I take it he died after…" his voice was rough.

She hated reliving this. She hated it. "During."

He shuddered, but did not release her.

"Oh God, Mary, I'm so sorry."

There was nothing she could say to that, so she just tightened her arms around him for a moment and he answered her in kind. She didn't want to talk about this any more. She never wanted to talk about it again. She wanted to put it behind her. It had been looming heavily over her future for far too long. Speaking of which…

"So does this mean you've forgiven me?" she asked.

She felt him shake his head against hers. "No, I haven't forgiven you."

Surprised and disappointed, she pulled away. "Well, then."

"Mary! Mary," he called her back and she looked at him in confusion. "I haven't forgiven you because I don't believe you need my forgiveness."

She fought back a fresh desire to burst into tears, but now for an entirely different reason. God, this man! How could he do this to her? She was lost to him, she…loved him, terribly. She smiled at him through eyes that were blurred around the edges.

"So will you?" he asked, drawing closer to her with a smile.

She frowned for a moment, blinking, and then realised what he was asking. Schooling her features to hide the jolt of delight, she stepped back and smoothed out her dress, one hand still clutching his handkerchief. She went over and laid it on the sideboard, then turned back to him. She needed to do this properly.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Because I might make a terrible wife for a country solicitor."

He smiled and shook his head, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers in a smugly self-assured way. "You'll be magnificent."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "That seems a rather grandiose word to describe such a position."

"It doesn't describe the position," he said. "It describes you."

She tried not to blush and failed. How could he still see her this way after everything he now knew about her? She tried again to be sensible, since he clearly wasn't capable of it.

"What if I can't be happy living a middle-class life?" she persisted. "What if I start to resent you for not being able to maintain me in the manner to which I am accustomed?"

He regarded her seriously, pursing his lips as he nodded. "Do you think that is likely to happen?"

She thought about it for a long moment. What would she be giving up, really? Dressing for dinner every night? A full wardrobe of perfectly-tailored, fashionable clothes? Enough servants to fill a mansion? A succession of tedious social calls where everyone constantly sized up everyone else? She'd told him not long ago that her life made her angry and it did. What would she be gaining if she joined him in his? Could his companionship and affection really compensate for all that would necessarily change for her? And what of…children? What kind of mother would he expect her to be?

Slight trepidation filled her: middle-class families did not usually have nannies and governesses, she thought. Actually, now that Mary considered it, she didn't know how many household staff they could expect to employ on his salary and she balked at the idea of cleaning and cooking herself. She knew nothing about how to do either and she suddenly felt intensely useless. What had she been learning to do the whole of her life? Speak French and discuss fashion and direct servants? Of what practical use was that? She couldn't run her own home without help, not yet at least, but if she married him, would she be expected to?

Then she relaxed a little: she recalled that Mrs Bird had arrived at Crawley House with Matthew and his mother; they had had a cook, at least. And given Isobel's preoccupation with the hospital, they had likely had a maid as well. Molesley seemed to be a fine butler, in addition to being Matthew's valet. He was no Carson, of course, but Carson belonged at Downton. Mary started to relax a little, but she was still uncertain. Would Matthew expect her to move to Crawley House? She balked at the prospect of living with Isobel. Perhaps it would be easier to convince him to move into Downton.

"I don't know," she said. Matthew nodded and looked down for a moment. Mary felt intensely awkward, not wanting to leave him in such a place. "…but I don't think so," she finished.

He looked up at her with a smile. "A wise answer."

"What about you?" she asked. "I haven't always treated you as well as you deserve. I can't promise not to make that same mistake again. Can you live with me without coming to resent me?"

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. Just as she began to feel a dart of uncertainty, he took a step towards her. "I don't know for certain," he replied. "…but I think so. On one condition."

She arched an eyebrow. "And that is?"

"Be honest with me. Always."

She smiled and nodded.

The grin that lit up his face was beautiful. "So you will?" he asked, taking another step closer.

She lifted her chin. "Matthew, I won't give you an answer unless you say it properly, kneel down, and everything."

He chuckled and shook his head in wry disbelief.

"Honestly, I'm a bit disappointed," she confessed, trying to hide an insistent smile.

His grin disappeared. "By what?"

"You've been avoiding me for almost eight months, and then you propose to me after just one kiss. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

He exhaled a brief laugh and then sobered. "No, I haven't taken leave of my senses. When a man feels about a woman as I feel about you, he proposes."

"Without a reasonable delay?" She spoke archly although his words had sent a pleasurable tingle throughout her body. But she wasn't about to give him any ground.

"And just what would be a reasonable delay?" he retorted, raising his eyebrows as he made a final step to stand directly in front of her.

Mary cast about for an answer and couldn't think of one, not if he felt for her half as much as she felt for him. God, she would marry him tonight if she could, and a thrill shot through her at this realisation.

He took her silence for the concession that it was and tilted his head in satisfaction.

"You accused me before of not being fastidious about doing things properly, but I am. Very much so. Just not about unimportant things like wine in water glasses."

Mary smirked. "If you're so fastidious, why are you still on your feet?"

He fixed her in a look of affectionate reproof and then took a step back, pulling his hands out of his pockets. She felt something squeeze in her chest as he lowered himself to one knee before her and took both of her hands in his own. He tilted his face up to hers and she couldn't prevent herself grinning this time. His smile grew to match and he began, with a slight tremor in his voice, "Lady Mary Crawley…" He suddenly looked down, bashful, and then met her eyes again. "Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Her heart took flight, even as his hands held her to the earth.

"Yes!"

He rose immediately and beamed at her for a moment, until she reached up and drew him down to kiss him thoroughly. His arms came round her waist and when she broke the kiss, he hugged her so tightly that when he straightened up, he lifted her feet off the floor. She clutched his back and felt a giggle bubble up despite her ribcage being partially crushed. He buried his face in her shoulder and laughed, then eased her back down until she stood before him again.

"I'll speak with your father first thing tomorrow." His eyes twinkled. "I want to do this  _properly_."

Oh God, her family. They were all going to be crowing. Then she gave a mental shrug. Before this evening, the thought of conforming to the fitness of things, of doing what was expected of her, would have set her hackles up, but somehow, now…it didn't matter. She knew her own heart, she knew what she wanted, and she was ready to take on the changes that it would bring. Who knew what the future held? She was so glad that now she looked forward to it instead of being indifferent to it or dreading it.

He loved her!


	2. Chapter 2

_2_

Thomas entered the dining room with a brief bow. "Mr Crawley to see you, my lord. I've shown him to the library."

Robert looked up from his paper, surprised. "At this hour? Did he say what it was about?"

"No, my lord."

Robert nodded, laying aside his paper and taking a final draw of his tea before setting down the empty cup. "Very well. Please inform him that I'll be by in a moment."

"Very good, my lord." Thomas exited the room.

Mary, Edith, and Sybil sat watching Robert as he left his napkin on the table and rose. They hadn't been as combative as usual this morning, he thought. It was nice to get through breakfast for once without having to listen to Mary and Edith sniping at one another, although listening to Sybil chatter on about some pamphlet she'd read on women's suffrage hadn't been much better. Robert was starting to think that Branson was a bad influence, although he was a fine chauffeur and hadn't done anything truly objectionable yet. Yet. Robert still wasn't convinced that Branson hadn't played some part in putting Sybil in danger yesterday, despite her protests to the contrary.

Robert folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, intending to finish reading it after he'd dealt with whatever business Matthew had brought. Perhaps it was something to do with one of the cottages, though why the boy couldn't have waited another hour for their usual walk of the grounds to discuss it was a mystery to him.

"Why, Mary, you're blushing!" Sybil exclaimed.

Robert paused in his movements to look at his eldest daughter. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks. "Mary?" he asked. "Are you well?"

"Quite well, Papa," Mary replied coolly, lifting her teacup to her lips. Sybil shot Edith a delighted, conspiratorial glance, but Edith merely sat back with a sour look on her face. Robert sighed inwardly and turned back to Carson.

"I'll be in the library if Lady Grantham asks," he told the butler. "But I might leave early for my morning walk with Mr Crawley. I should be back in time for lunch."

Carson nodded. "And should we expect Mr Crawley to be joining the family for lunch?"

Robert looked at him. What an unusual question. Sybil made a humming noise and Robert frowned, glancing at her. She was fighting a smile. Edith was staring at her plate. Mary was quite deliberately cutting her meal into tiny pieces, her back stiff. Robert felt his usual sense of annoyance at suspecting that he didn't know what the women of his house were getting up to. He put them out of his mind and turned back to Carson. Matthew never stayed for lunch after their morning walks; he usually took a half-day off work and then left immediately for Ripon. Carson knew this, of course.

"I doubt it, but it's probably best to let Mrs Patmore know we might have one more."

"Very good, my lord." Carson nodded.

Robert shot one final glance at his daughters and left the dining room in search of Matthew.

He found the younger man standing by a window in the library, his hands clasped behind his back. Matthew immediately turned to face him when he entered.

"Matthew," Robert greeted him with a smile. "What's this about? Do you need to get to work earlier today? We can cancel our walk if you'd like." Robert dropped his newspaper on to his desk and glanced at the small stack of post that Carson had left for him—a letter from Murray, two bills.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Actually, Robert, I need to ask you something."

Robert looked up from his letters with a frown. "Is everything all right?" he asked. "The plumbing at Crawley House hasn't backed up again, has it?"

Matthew laughed. "No. Barnes sorted that last week. Mrs Bird sends her hearty thanks, as does my mother."

Robert nodded, laying the letters down and putting his hands in his pockets. "What is it, then?"

Matthew swallowed and glanced aside for a moment, shifting his feet nervously, and Robert frowned. What was it with everyone this morning? There wasn't a full moon that Robert could recall.

"Lord Grantham, I—" Robert's eyebrows shot up. Matthew never addressed him so formally. "—I'd like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Robert's mouth dropped open in surprise, and he pulled his hands out of his pockets and took a step closer to Matthew, whose eyes widened in something approaching fear. "Excuse me?"

Matthew swallowed. "Mary. I want to marry her."

"Mary?" Robert knew that he sounded an idiot, but he couldn't quite wrap his head around the faded hope that seemed to be suddenly coming true right in front of him. "But you haven't spoken so much as three words to each other in months..."

Matthew frowned and looked away, closing his mouth. Robert blinked. Last night! He'd left Mary to look after Matthew's late-night supper, after the whole fiasco with Sybil at the rally. He really needed to take Branson to task for that. Perhaps he'd call in the chauffeur for a proper dressing-down this afternoon. The man needed to know his place.

Robert looked at Matthew's tense expression and suddenly smiled. Was that all it took, leaving him and Mary alone in a room together once? Robert should have arranged it months ago; he suppressed a smirk at the thought.

Ah, but this situation was a serious one, and Robert should take it seriously. He fixed a stern expression on his face, resisting the urge to skip the formalities and clap Matthew on the back in a hearty congratulations. Of course Robert was going to give his consent, but there was business to sort out first. "And what are Mary's views on the matter?" he asked.

A small smile broke on Matthew's face. "She has accepted my offer."

"You made it last night, I take it?"

Matthew nodded. Robert contemplated him for a long moment. He liked Matthew a great deal. The boy could be a bit stubborn at times, but what Crawley man wasn't? He was intelligent, kind, and well-spoken, and he'd adapted to this new life far better than Robert had expected. Robert was not worried about the future of the estate in Matthew's hands, although the boy still had a long way to go before he'd be ready to take over. As delighted as Robert was to hear of this development—Mary would finally inherit the estate, as she always should have, and she would even have as her partner in life a man who would be fond of her, not a marriage of mere convenience—it was difficult to contemplate the reality of giving her to any man, even Matthew. There was an ache in Robert's chest as he realised that the day he'd both dreaded and hoped for was fast approaching. He and Cora had had their children, and now it was time to begin to step aside and make way for the next generation. He was giving his daughter away; he would no longer be the foremost man in her life, no longer able to protect her as fully as he wished to. No matter how tidy this connection would be, he could not give his permission so easily. He must be sure.

He strode across the room and rang the bell. William pushed the door open a moment later.

"You rang, my lord?"

"Yes, William, would you fetch Lady Mary, please?"

With a quick nod, William turned on his heel and let the door swing closed behind him. Robert approached Matthew. "What changed?"

"Excuse me?"

"What prompted your offer last night?"

Matthew looked out the window on to the grounds. "She indicated that she was amenable to the idea."

Robert gave a short laugh. "Well said."

Matthew responded with a tentative smile, then sobered. "There's one thing you haven't asked me, Robert."

Robert stepped up beside him and they both looked out the window now. "What's that?"

"Whether I love her."

Robert nodded. "I don't need to."

Matthew seemed to take offense at this. "I know you probably think it terribly middle-class of me—"

"No," Robert answered. "I don't. You misunderstand me."

Matthew subsided.

"I know it's common among our kind of people to marry for reasons other than love," Robert said. "But it's a practical thing, not because we don't love as well as anyone else. You must understand," he looked at Matthew. "Mary is a target. A man can feign love and evoke it in a woman, taking advantage of her for her fortune and sabotaging her future and that of any children she may have. She would have no recourse under the law. It has happened before and it is an ugly thing." He looked away again. "We've learned to guard our hearts. She's been taught to do so, for her own protection."

"I hadn't really thought of it that way."

"Mm. Her settlement will be very generous, although not nearly as much as she deserves, what with the terms of the entail."

Matthew shook his head. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Now that is very middle-class of you," Robert teased, then sobered. "If you go through with this, you will need to consider it."

Matthew gave a curt nod.

"And to return to my earlier point: I don't need to ask you if you love her." Robert smiled. "Your regard for her has been obvious to me and Cora for a long time."

Matthew winced. "Really?"

Robert laughed. "You haven't been trained to hide your feelings, Matthew."

"No," Matthew agreed with a smile. Both men turned when the door opened behind them and William stepped in.

"Lady Mary, my lord."

"Thank you, William. That will be all."

Mary walked into the library, her face and form betraying nothing. A pang struck Robert at the sight. For all that he'd just told Matthew, it still hurt sometimes to see her so guarded. He remembered a carefree, loving child, skipping into the library, her dark braids swinging behind her, eager to show him a newly-discovered passage in a favourite book, but those days were long past. When was the last time she had come, eager to share something with him? She'd withdrawn behind a wall of cool poise one day, it seemed, and had never returned. He felt a bit of hope, though, as he glanced between her and Matthew. If anyone could draw her true nature out, it would be Matthew. Mary lit up in his presence more than she ever did in anyone else's. Now, though, she stood slim and straight, a polite smile on her face as she regarded them.

"You sent for me, Papa?"

"Yes," he answered, suppressing a smile. "Matthew tells me that he made you an offer of marriage and that you accepted him. Is this true?"

The moment the words had left him, Mary's cool reserve fell away to be replaced by a dazzling smile. Robert realised with a shock that he couldn't remember when he'd last seen her smile so freely. Had she been so unhappy? How had he not noticed? This smile alone was enough to do away with any last shred of reservation that he may have harboured.

"Yes, Papa." Her voice was calm but her face was alight. He swallowed back a lump in his throat at the sight.

"Then I give you both my blessing, without reservation," he answered, joy flooding him. Matthew grinned as Mary swept across the room towards them, throwing her arms round Robert's neck.

"Thank you, Papa!"

He held her tightly for a moment. How much longer would she be his little girl? He fought back tears again.

When he released her, he was pleased to see her hand drift to link with Matthew's.

"Your mother is going to be beside herself," Robert said, looking forward to breaking the news to his wife. Oftentimes her unbridled displays of emotion were a source of great joy to him, and he certainly expected this one to be.

"Undoubtedly," Mary said dryly. "But Papa, do you think you could wait and not tell her?"

"Whatever for?" he frowned.

Mary glanced at Matthew and then looked back at Robert. "We'd like to announce it properly at dinner tonight, when Granny and Cousin Isobel can be there as well. To contain the joy."

Matthew laughed. "I don't think anything can do that, my darling."

Mary's eyebrows shot up and she looked at him for a long moment, a new smile playing at her lips. Turning back to Robert, she said, "Be that as it may, I don't think Mama will be able to contain herself, and I could not bear a day of playing Chinese whispers with everyone, including the staff." She cocked an eyebrow at him and he nodded.

"Very well. But tonight at dinner. I won't be able to keep it from your mother this evening otherwise. She has an uncanny ability to call me out. As it is, I'll have to find an excuse to avoid her for most of the day." He looked at Matthew. "Shall we tour some of the more far-flung edges of the estate, do you think, and perhaps take lunch in the village?"

Matthew laughed and shook his head. "Sorry. I've got a one o'clock appointment at the office today and a fearsome array of work promised by the end of the week. If I want to be able to make it back in time to dress for dinner tonight, perhaps I should take a rain check on our usual tour of the cottages."

"Fair enough," Robert said. "I'll hold you to it. Saturday instead?"

"That should be fine."

"I'll leave you two to your business, then," Mary said. "I promised Sybil some of my time this morning."

Robert caught her free hand as she started to step away. He gave her an affectionate squeeze. "I'm so happy for you, my dear."

"Thank you, Papa," she said with an answering smile. "I'll see you at dinner. Shall I tell Carson not to expect you for lunch?"

"That's probably for the best," he answered, releasing her. "I've been needing to stop by Coulton's farm; today might be just the day to do it." The farm was on the border that the estate shared with Sir Anthony's property. It would take the bulk of the morning to reach it on foot, and perhaps he could stop in to chat with Sir Anthony for a bit. He needed to have a word with the man about Edith, anyway. He blinked; everything seemed to be happening at once. "Have a good day."

Mary smiled, and with one last, warm glance at Matthew, left the room.

"Congratulations," Robert said, shaking Matthew's hand and clapping him on the shoulder. "I couldn't be more pleased."

Matthew grinned. "Thank you, Robert. That means more to me than you can know." With a final nod, he strode towards the door. "I will see you at dinner."

Robert watched the spring in the younger man's step and smiled as Matthew disappeared through the door. Yes, Robert was extremely pleased with this development.

Clapping his hands, he stepped out through the doors that opened on to the back lawn. "Pharaoh! Come on, boy! Pharaoh!" A moment later, Pharaoh came loping round the corner of the house, crashing through a flowerbed and leaving it in partial disarray. His mother would take him to task for that if she saw it. He needed to find a gardener before he left. He paused to breathe in the morning air and smiled as Pharaoh came trotting up beside him. "Beautiful day, isn't it, boy?" he said, smiling, as he set out across the familiar green landscape.


	3. Chapter 3

_3_

Carson held out the box of cigars between Matthew and Robert and waited patiently as they each selected one and clipped off the ends.

"Will you be wanting more port this evening, my lord?"

Robert shook his head and struck a match. He gave Matthew a questioning glance, and Matthew looked quickly up at Carson as he took his own match and struck it.

"No, thank you, Carson."

Carson nodded, carrying away the cigar-box and setting it down on the sideboard. Glassware clinked as he set the decanter of port on his tray.

Robert lit his cigar and sat back with a satisfied draw. He watched Matthew light his own cigar and smiled.

"You have no idea how delighted I am, my boy," Robert said. "No idea."

Matthew exhaled, waving out the match and setting it down, and he looked away with a wry grin. "I might have some idea. But thank you for saying it all the same."

Robert gave a short laugh of acknowledgement.

Carson reappeared at their side with a slight bow. "Might I offer my congratulations as well, Mr Crawley? And on behalf of all the staff?"

Matthew met the butler's twinkling eyes with gratitude, feeling his cheeks warm. "I thank you, Carson."

Carson picked up his tray and turned to them. "Will that be all, my lord?"

"Yes, Carson, thank you," Robert replied. "And please pass my compliments on to Mrs Patmore: the treacle tart was delicious."

Carson smiled as he gave a slight bow. "She will be delighted to hear it. Have a good evening, my lord, Mr Crawley."

"You too," Matthew called back as Carson exited with a tilt of his head, and then Matthew and Robert were left alone in the dining room, the remnants of dinner still laid out on the table beside them. Matthew pushed a dessert plate aside and moved his glass of port to a more comfortable spot. They smoked in silence for a minute, Matthew acutely aware that Robert was watching him.

"So have you settled on a date?" Robert asked.

Matthew cleared his throat and shook his head. "I'm leaving that to Mary. Cousin Violet seems to have some definite opinions about avoiding May."

"Probably wise," Robert replied with a smirk. "It's best to stay out of the planning as much as possible. Crawley women can be tyrants in these matters."

Matthew laughed. "I can imagine."

They shared a look of understanding and went back to enjoying their port and cigars in a friendly silence.

"I must confess that I was surprised this morning," Robert said after a short while, rolling off a bit of ash. "I hadn't expected such happy news so soon. You've been making yourself scarce ever since the dinner party with Sir Anthony." His tone was light, but his eyes were fixed on Matthew.

Matthew shifted, using the excuse of tapping his own cigar to break from the older man's gaze. "My caseload has been heavier," he explained, not wanting to admit to a deliberate avoidance of the family. It was all water under the bridge now, anyway.

"By choice, I would imagine," Robert replied, although there was no rancour in his tone. Matthew's eyes darted to his and Robert raised his eyebrows. Matthew gave a short nod; there wasn't much point to denying what they both knew to be true. Robert took a sip of his port and sighed, then set his glass down. "I'm sorry, Matthew. Mary can be such a child sometimes."

"We all can be from time to time, I would imagine," Matthew said, his tone a bit sharper than it probably ought to have been. "She is extraordinary."

Robert laughed. "That she is! I am well aware of it." He shook his head with an affectionate smile, his gaze drifting into the middle distance. "You should have seen her as a child; she could match wits and best a grown man with her words and quotes. I had never known anyone so young could be so well-read, so quick with their understanding. She would have made a fearsome earl."

Matthew grinned, recalling the many verbal duels he'd engaged in with Mary and how much he enjoyed them. The prospect of having a wife with a similarly voracious appetite for good literature and with a wit as sharp as his own filled him with pleasure. Life with her would never be dull. For all her initial appearance of disdain at his preference for reading in his leisure time, he knew she was a similar soul. Speaking of which: he made a mental note to invite her out for a ride. It was something he'd long been intending but had never made the time to do since he'd arrived at Downton. Now that they were engaged, the family would police them closely, chaperoning all their interactions. A ride might be a rare opportunity to spend some time alone with her. He smiled at the thought.

Robert observed Matthew and chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you'd know that aspect of her well, wouldn't you?"

"Quite," Matthew replied, relaxing back into his chair and taking a sip of port.

"To be honest, watching your battles, I was starting to think you'd never get to the point where you'd be willing to offer and Mary would be willing to accept."

Matthew smiled ruefully. "Even after I had, it was still touch-and-go for a while there," he admitted. "What with the whole rotten business with Pamuk." He drew on the cigar and exhaled, focussing on calming the urge to hit something whenever he thought of the bastard. He glanced at Robert, expecting to share a brief look of righteous anger, and was unsettled when he didn't find it. Instead, Lord Grantham was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Matthew frowned. What was—?

The monumental nature of his error crashed in upon him in a terrible rush. _Robert didn't know._

Matthew suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

When Robert next spoke, his voice was deliberately calm, which only filled Matthew with a deeper sense of dread.

"What rotten business with Pamuk?" Lord Grantham asked. "What does a dead Turkish diplomat have to do with your engagement to Mary?"

Matthew suppressed a manic urge to flee; his fingers tightened on his cigar as he cast madly about for a way to escape this conversation. Mary was going to tear strips off him for this. Mary. "It's—it's not my tale to tell," he tried lamely, avoiding her father's eyes.

Robert set down his glass—his cigar was already resting on its tray—and leaned forward. "Whose tale is it, then, Matthew?"

Matthew felt a strange shiver at the way Robert had said his name: it reminded him of his own late father, when he would call Matthew in to give an account for disobeying his mother or some such act of childish rebellion. He swallowed and looked up, meeting Robert's eyes. Matthew wondered how the truth of such a terrible event had escaped the earl's notice in the first place, but that was neither here nor there. He straightened in his chair and fixed Robert with a glare. The glare wasn't directed at Robert, but Matthew couldn't think of Mary's pain without being angry at its cause. "Mary's."

Robert frowned. "What's this about? Truly?"

Matthew considered his options. The thought of refusing to tell Robert and leaving Mary unexpectedly at the mercy of her father's unbridled wrath—for he was certain Lord Grantham would not take this news quietly—seemed worse than revealing her confidence. He couldn't forewarn her at this point. Perhaps he could prepare Robert, soften the blow for her somehow, be on hand to cushion the impact. He made his decision.

Even so, actually managing to work the words out of his mouth, these words, and to her _father_ …his heart pounded at the prospect. He felt a sudden desire to dig up the dead Turk and pummel him. Matthew's fingers clenched around the stem of his cigar and he remembered he was still holding it. He practically threw it into its tray as he stood up, agitated. How to phrase it? Should he try to explain first?

He stopped, his hands working at his sides. Out with the damn truth, already. There was no way to explain an evil like this. He looked at Robert and, steeling himself, he bit out, "The bastard raped her, Robert."

Lord Grantham stood up so abruptly he sent his chair crashing to the floor, unheeded behind him. His face was slack with shock, but it was only the pretence of calm before the storm. His features darkened and Matthew was suddenly acutely aware of how much larger Robert was than himself. For one, wild moment, as Robert's fists rose, Matthew thought the earl might try to strangle him in Pamuk's place. _Don't kill the messenger!_ Matthew thought with an irrational, mad sort of humour that made him inexplicably want to cry.

" _What?!_ " Lord Grantham demanded, taking a step towards him.

Matthew's arms instinctively rose up in a defensive gesture and he held his palms out in Robert's direction, trying to the turn the gesture into a calming one.

" _He did WHAT to Mary?!_ "

Matthew heard a distant door crash open and realised Lord Grantham was bringing the house down around them. This was quickly going to become a dreadful scene, and horror shot through Matthew at the prospect. Public exposure was the very _last_ thing he wanted for Mary. If she had managed to hide the terrible truth from her father, under his own roof, then she must have managed to hide it from everyone else as well. The servants! Her shame must not be exposed to anyone outside the family! It was awful enough that her family might know, but the world would censure her for something that had been beyond her control.

"Robert, shhh, please!" Matthew begged.

This was the wrong tactic.

"Don't you shush me, Matthew Crawley!" Robert advanced on him. "You will tell me _right now_ what the _hell_ is going on!"

Robert had gotten a grip on Matthew's lapels just as Mary pushed into the room, her eyes wide. "Papa!" she cried, rushing to Matthew's side. At the sight of his daughter, Robert seemed to realise he was accosting the wrong man, and he released Matthew immediately, stepping back and breathing hard. His eyes darted between the two of them.

"Papa, what are you _doing?_ " Mary demanded. She looked at Matthew for an explanation and he swallowed. He'd gone about this at sixes and sevens, he realised too late. The hard look that came into Mary's eyes told him that he was going to answer for this later.

"Robert, language!" Cousin Violet's imperious voice sailed into the room through the open door. "What is going on here?"

"That's what I want to know!" her son shouted again.

"Voices, voices," Violet said as she appeared, holding her stick. "Shouting indoors is so middle-class."

Matthew watched with a sinking feeling as Sybil, Edith, and—oh God, his mother—crowded in behind the Dowager Countess, their eyes all as round as saucers. Cora trailed behind, an unreadable expression on her face.

"You're a grown man, Robert. Behave like one," Violet said, taking a seat that afforded her an excellent angle from which to view the combatants.

"I am!—" Robert visibly brought himself under control, "—behaving like one." His burning gaze fixed on Mary, and Matthew suppressed the urge to plant himself between father and daughter.

Robert seemed about to demand that Mary explain the situation but he paused with his mouth open, suddenly taking in the crowd that had entered the room.

Carson appeared at Cora's elbow. "Is something amiss, my lord?" His eyes raked the room, noting the overturned chair with a slight frown.

Cora looked at her husband with a pleading expression. Robert forcibly subsided and stood to his full height, drawing in a deep breath and tugging at his waistcoat to straighten it. "No, Carson, we are quite all right, thank you. We might be some time; we are not to be disturbed."

Carson looked concerned, but he merely said, "Very good, my lord," and turned to leave.

Cora touched his sleeve, giving him pause.

"My lady?"

"Carson, would you fetch Anna, please?"

The butler's face creased, but he merely nodded. "At once."

Cora turned to her two youngest daughters. "Sybil, Edith, it's time for you to retire."

Sybil made as if to protest, but one glance at her father's stony expression silenced her. She, admirably, suppressed a pout. "Good night, Granny," she said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her grandmother's cheek. Violet gave her a brief smile and a return of affection. Edith was next; she was strangely quiet, having put up no sign of protest at being dismissed. She followed Sybil from the room, glancing back once at Mary, and then the door closed behind them.

Into the deafening silence, Isobel spoke. "Should I take my leave as well?"

A series of looks were exchanged; no one knew quite how to answer her. Matthew looked to Mary. Her face was pale and her shoulders were rigid. How he wished he could draw her into his embrace, but he was certain neither propriety nor his fiancée would allow such an action. She was not meeting his eyes. He looked across the room to his mother, who nodded but looked displeased.

"I thank you for a lovely evening, Cousin Cora," she said crisply. "I'll just have Carson ring for the car. Matthew? Are you coming?"

"No, Mother," he answered. "I'll be home later." He would have told her not to wait up for him, but he knew it would be futile. His evening was far from over. He suppressed a sigh; this whole dreadful situation was his fault, and he would answer for it.

"Very well, good night then Cousin Robert, Cousin Violet, Mary," she nodded to them all with a tight smile and strode from the room. Those who remained were left in a tense silence, listening to her steps fade as the door closed behind her, each waiting for someone else to speak first.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Violet finally said. "Would someone please explain what's going on?"

A knock sounded on the door and they all turned as Carson entered, Anna slipping in behind him. Her eyes widened as she took in the room's inhabitants and the tense atmosphere. "You called for me, Your Ladyship?"

Cora smiled at the young maid. "Lady Edith and Lady Sybil are retiring early this evening. Would you please see to them? And Anna: don't go far, please. We may have need of you in a short while."

Anna's face was pale but she gave a quick nod. "Of course, my lady. I'll just be upstairs."

"Thank you, Anna."

With the barest of curtsies, Anna walked out past Carson. "Will there be anything else, my lord?" he asked.

"No, thank you, Carson."

The butler nodded and left, the door closing behind him. No one spoke.

"The suspense is killing me," Violet observed.

Robert gave a bitter laugh and rounded on Mary. "Well, I might as well get straight to it, then. Is it true, what Matthew says? Kemal Pamuk—took…advantage of you?"

There was a round of gasps from the three women. All eyes turned to Mary, who seemed to shrink under the scrutiny. Matthew was half a second from throwing propriety to the wind and reaching for her when he saw her straighten her shoulders and lift her chin.

"Yes, Papa," she answered, in a clear and surprisingly steady voice. Matthew loved her for it. His storm-braver.

And just like that, Robert deflated. He reached out and clutched the back of the nearest chair for support. He looked old and weary. After an uncomfortable pause, he turned to her. A question flitted across his features. "Did you—?" he broke off, tried again. "How did he die? I take it he wasn't found dead in his bed."

"No," Mary said. "He died in mine."

Her words seemed to stab her father. He couldn't meet her eyes. "And how did he die?" he finally asked. "Did this house hide not just a—" but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He skipped ahead. "Was he murdered?" Robert's eyes flickered briefly to Matthew, who quickly shook his head.

Mary took in this exchange. "The coroner said it was a weak heart, Papa," she reminded him.

She didn't have to fill in the rest of the details; Matthew could see Robert putting all of the horrible pieces together and arriving at a conclusion that was probably as close to the truth as anyone outside of Mary could get. Robert turned away and closed his eyes, pain visible in his features and in the white-knuckled grip he kept on the chair. The room was silent.

"And how, may I ask," he opened his eyes and attempted a normal tone of voice, "was all this kept hidden? There is no way you carried that man's body all the way back to his bedroom, Mary. The bachelor's corridor is on the opposite side of the house!"

"She didn't do it alone, Robert," Cora said. Her husband's eyes shot to her in shock.

"You helped her?" he whispered.

"And Anna," Cora nodded. "I'm sorry, Robert."

He squeezed his eyes shut again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Cora looked to Mary for help. Mary shifted. "We—I—didn't think you would…understand, Papa."

At this, Robert's eyes opened wide and he turned towards her, letting go of the chair. Pain filled his frame and face as he walked over to where she stood. Matthew watched her stand without flinching at her father's approach. When Robert reached her, he lifted his hands to her shoulders, his expression both pained and softened.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," he whispered. Matthew felt like he was intruding and he took a step backwards, but he bumped against the sideboard and could go no farther. He did not want to draw attention to himself by moving again, so he remained still, watching this intimate moment between father and daughter. "I have failed you."

Mary's eyes widened and she put her hands on her father's chest. "No, Papa! This was not your fault!"

He expression hardened. "I welcomed that—that _bastard_ into this house," he said. "And I took no notice of his behaviour towards you. I assumed you knew what you were doing."

"I thought that I did," Mary whispered brokenly.

Robert shook his head. "I'm your father: it's my _job_ to protect you, Mary. I'm so, so sorry."

"This is all very touching," Violet said dryly, "but I must point out that this is the first I've heard of the encounter being against your will, Mary."

Mary gasped. Robert pulled away from her in shock and looked accusingly at Matthew. Matthew stepped forward, chancing a quick look at Mary, whose pale face and wide eyes filled him with a righteous anger to defend her, even against herself. He took in Cora, Violet, and Robert with one swift glance.

"She _was_ taken against her will," Matthew asserted, knowing Mary still struggled with characterizing her experience in such black-and-white terms. He had no such qualms. "He entered her room uninvited—she still has no idea how he knew which room was hers—she asked him to leave, she threatened to scream—" here Matthew fixed Robert with his gaze, knowing the earl would understand, "—and Kemal Pamuk told her that _it was too late_ , that even if she screamed, a man would be discovered in her bedroom and she would still be ruined. Mary allowed him then to—"

Matthew couldn't continue; bile rose up in his throat without warning and he had to force down the sudden urge to slam his fists into something. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath through clenched teeth, then deliberately exhaled. He would finish what he had begun. "He imposed himself on her. Against her will." He opened his eyes again, looking first at Violet, then at Robert, and finally at Mary as he spoke. "It does not matter at that point whether she reciprocated in any way. He took away any real choice she had in the matter, and you—" he was looking at Mary now, his voice dropping in volume, "—you made what little choice you had left to influence _how_ it happened."

She was staring at him with wide eyes. He drew in a ragged breath to still his trembling frame. Another calming breath and the burn in his chest began to recede. He stepped up to her, taking her hands in his. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely. _It was not your fault._

She blinked and swallowed. "I—love you, too, Matthew." Her voice had a rasp in it and she swallowed again.

Matthew heard a sniff across the room and he glanced over to see Cora wiping her eyes. Violet, by contrast, was sitting stiffly, holding the top of her stick in both hands and pursing her lips. She met his eyes and gave him the barest of nods.

"I am quite worn out by all of this melodrama," she announced. "I think it's time I retired as well."

"I'll ring for Branson," Robert said, sounding relieved at having something normal to do.

"I think he's taking Cousin Isobel home," Cora said.

"Oh, don't bother with that," Violet said, pushing herself up. "I'll ring for O'Brien instead. I'll stay here tonight."

Robert and Cora exchanged a look over the Dowager's head, but neither put up a protest.

"Don't stay too late, Matthew," Violet said over her shoulder, as she made her way to the door. Robert moved to open it for her. "Your mother needs her rest, too."

Robert snorted softly. Matthew shook his head with a pained smile. "I won't, Cousin Violet."

"Robert. Cora. Good night."

"Good night, Mama," Robert replied. He and Cora turned to face Mary and Matthew before leaving the room as well. Cora's gaze was wet and sentimental. Robert's gaze rested on Mary. "Ten minutes, and then I am sending Carson in to retrieve Matthew. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Good." Robert gave them a curt nod, his eyes softening for a fraction of a second before he and his wife left the room. The door whispered shut behind them and then Matthew looked at Mary.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't realise."

Mary looked as if she were considering some choice words, but after a long moment, she just put her arms round his neck and pulled him close, drawing his head down beside hers. He held her in silence and waited, eventually relaxing into her embrace and resting his cheek against the curve of her neck.

"Please forgive me?" he asked.

"There's nothing to forgive," she murmured, her breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, noticing how warm and wonderful she smelled, and he drew in a deep breath and let it out, releasing the tension of the evening along with it. Mary loosened her grip on him and he straightened, his hands still cradling her back. She smiled up at him. "In fact, that went off better than I ever imagined. Without you and your…interpretation of the facts, it would have gone much worse."

"Without me, it never would have gone off at all," he said.

"I'm glad it did. I'm glad I'm no longer living in fear of the day that Papa discovers it."

Matthew smiled. "Perfect love casteth out fear."

Mary arched an eyebrow at him. "Your love is perfect, then?"

"No," Matthew replied. "Of course not. But if fear was cast out, I must have done _something_ right."

"I can't argue with such impeccable logic," Mary smirked.

"Then don't," he answered. "Just—" and he kissed her. It was chaste and sweet. She broke it with a sigh and rested her cheek against his collarbone. They stood in comfortable silence for a while, Matthew rubbing small circles on her back.

She eventually pulled out of his embrace, giving him a small peck on his jaw in apology as she moved away. "I'd rather not share this moment with Carson or anyone else," she explained, and he nodded. He took her hand as she led him to the door, and he tugged her back for a slightly more passionate press of lips before releasing her a moment later and opening the door for her to go through. She smiled as she turned away and he felt a satisfied warmth suffuse him.

"Good night," she said, as she showed him to the entranceway. William stood waiting there, holding Matthew's coat and hat. Matthew nodded his thanks to the young footman as he took his things and shrugged into his coat. Mary took William's place, straightening Matthew's coat and brushing off an imaginary speck of lint as he donned his hat. He enjoyed the sensation of this possibly becoming their habit: her seeing him off when he left the house, except then he wouldn't hesitate to kiss her before he went out the door. Here, now, she would never permit it with William in attendance. With a final squeeze of his hand in hers, she let him go.

"Good night," he answered with a smile. He touched his hat and then stepped out into the crisp night air. He was looking forward to the walk home.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

I drew on the following sources while writing this chapter:

Biblical excerpts were taken from 1 John 4:18, King James Version.


	4. Chapter 4

_4_

Isobel sat in bed, her reading glasses perched on her nose, and realised that she still couldn't remember what the last paragraph was about. She let the book fall to her lap with a sigh and frowned into the middle distance. She looked up an instant later as she heard the front door swing closed and the sound of murmuring in the front hall.

She wanted to rush out and demand that Matthew explain why Cousin Robert had shouted at him, but Matthew would not take kindly to being accosted the moment he arrived home. Isobel smiled to herself and picked up her book. He was not unlike his father in that respect. No, it was best to wait: either he would tell her himself, or she would find out from him tomorrow at breakfast. She just needed to be patient.

She heard footsteps on the stairs: Matthew's, not Molesley's. As she listened, she heard the footsteps draw up to her door. There was a long moment of silence and she raised her eyebrows, then fixed her eyes on her book.

At his soft knock, she said, "Yes?"

Matthew cracked open the door and poked his head in. "Mother?"

"Matthew." She looked over her glasses at him. "Come in."

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry to keep you up."

She laid her book aside and smiled up at him. "Not at all," she said, taking off her glasses. "Is everything all right?"

Matthew sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "In a sense, I suppose."

Isobel frowned. "Whatever could have made Cousin Robert shout at you like that? The engagement is still on, I trust?"

Matthew looked up at her. "Oh yes, of course."

Isobel was relieved. "Then what was it?"

Matthew looked at his hands, which he was kneading, and when he noticed, he stilled them and sighed again. "I don't know if I should tell you."

Isobel just fixed him with a glare of disbelief. "If they're at odds with you, Matthew, I must know. You didn't...do something with Mary that you ought not to have, did you?"

Matthew straightened and shot her a glare of his own. "Mother! Of course not! How could you even—?" He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, then paced round the small bedroom while Isobel watched him. She was just about to demand that he explain himself when he suddenly stopped, put his hands on her footboard, and looked straight at her.

"Mary was raped, Mother."

Isobel closed her eyes, feeling a deep pain well up in her chest. "When?" she whispered, and opened her eyes, her head spinning as she tried to focus on her son. She was safe with her son.

Matthew dropped his head with a long sigh, then straightened and began to pace again, this time more slowly than before. When he reached the window, he put a hand on the frame and stared out into the night.

"Do you remember the Turkish diplomat who died at the big house?" he asked, sounding tired.

Isobel frowned, realised that she was clutching the covers with both hands, and released them.

"Yes," she said. "A Mr...Pamak, was it?"

"Pamuk. Kemal Pamuk," Matthew corrected, the disdain for the man evident in his voice.

Isobel frowned. "What has he to do—" She suddenly froze. "It was him, wasn't it?"

Matthew nodded, still not looking at her. Isobel felt a sudden sheet of cold descend over her as she stared at him. Mr Pamuk had raped Mary. And Mr Pamuk had _died_.

Where had Matthew been that night? Surely he would not—! But Isobel could not imagine Cousin Robert or Carson or anyone else in the house committing such a terrible act either. _Where had Matthew been?_ Isobel wracked her memory but could not recall for certain. She _thought_ he had been home. He had come home with her after dinner that evening and had gone to bed at his usual time, most likely. She had not seen him until the morning—but no, how ridiculous. He would have had no reason to return to the house that night, unless— She tried to recall the details of that evening. There had been Mr Pamuk and the other gentleman, a nice man, what was his name? Isobel could remember even less of him than she could of the Turkish gentleman. But one thing she remembered clearly: _Matthew kept looking at Mary and Mr Pamuk._ Her son spent most dinners with the family casting glances at Mary, or sparring with her, if they were seated together. What had been unusual that night was the sour expression on his face. He hadn't liked Mr Pamuk, that much she suspected. But surely Matthew would never—

"You don't seem as shocked as I expected you would be," Matthew observed, and Isobel realised that he was watching her. Her sheet of cold remained and now she stared at him in a kind of horror, her earlier feeling of safety in his presence beginning to pull away. He was suddenly alien to her and she couldn't comprehend it. _Not Matthew!_ her heart screamed. _No!_

But she must know the truth and she must remain calm. Sometimes sane men lost control of themselves in a crime of passion. A crime...

_NO!_

No.

 _Do not run ahead of yourself, Isobel._ She swallowed and raised her chin.

"What do you mean?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"You merely closed your eyes."

Isobel frowned, trying to remember her actions since he'd entered the room. She'd closed her eyes after he'd touched the footboard, when he'd said—

She closed her eyes again. _Mary._

Her thoughts immediately went out into the night, across the few miles to the great house, and into the bedroom where she imagined Mary to be at this very moment. She wished she could hold the young woman, tell her that she was not alone, that she was strong and treasured and loved. _Dear Lord, please comfort her..._

Isobel felt the bed shift and then her son's warm hand touched her wrist.

"Mother," he said.

She opened her eyes slowly as she felt him tugging at her hands. She looked down and realised that she was clutching her nightgown tightly against herself, holding the phantom Mary in her arms.

"Mother?"

He was looking at her with those familiar ice-blue eyes, warm and concerned. This was no murderer.

"How did he die?" she asked.

He frowned and dropped his gaze. She waited, no longer afraid of what he would tell her, but dreading what it might reveal about their adopted family.

"They said it was his heart," she prompted.

"It was," Matthew answered heavily. "From what Mary has said, I think his heart gave out during his assault on her."

Isobel's head snapped up in shock at that. "Oh, dear God," she whispered.

Matthew looked at her. "Is that even medically possible?"

"Of course," she answered. "Strenuous activity can cause a rupture in a congenitally-weak heart. It's not common, certainly, but it's not outside the realm of possibility. Oh, how terrible for Mary!"

"Yes," Matthew said. "Mother, let go."

"What?" Isobel frowned at him.

"Your hands. Relax your hands, Mother, you're frightening me."

She forced her grip to open with a gasp. Her hands ached. The urge to clutch at something had passed. She flexed her fingers.

Matthew was still looking at her, worried. "I've never seen you do that before. Are you quite all right?"

The joints in her hands ached. She hoped it was not a worsening of her arthritis. She rubbed her fingers together, massaging them and wincing. Matthew took her hands in his and continued to work at the joints, his larger, stronger hands having a more therapeutic effect. She smiled as she watched him and she leaned forward to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you so terribly much," she said.

He looked up with a smile. "I know. I love you too, Mother. There: how does that feel?"

"Better," she replied, stretching her fingers. "Much better."

Matthew watched her a moment.

"You never answered my question," he said.

Isobel looked down at her book and reading glasses. "What question was that?"

"Why weren't you more shocked by what I said about Mary?"

Isobel sighed and met his eyes. "Rape is far more common than most realise."

Matthew frowned. "Truly?"

"Oh, my boy," she said, reaching up to hold the side of his face. "So few men are as good-hearted as yourself and your dear father." She dropped her hand and folded her glasses. She did not expect to return to her reading tonight. "I saw too much of it at St. Mary's." She felt the weight of an age on her shoulders as she remembered. "So many young women, and too many of them wives. Mothers of children. Even grandmothers and young girls. None are exempt."

Matthew sat back and looked horrified. Isobel nodded and looked away. "Even myself."

There was dead silence for several long seconds. She did not think Matthew even breathed. She inhaled deeply and pressed her lips together, then looked at him. His eyes searched her face and she watched him fight to swallow. She reached out to touch his hand, wanting to comfort him. He unfroze at her touch, taking her hand in his and looking at it as if he had never seen it before. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he struggled to find words. He finally looked up at her, his face creased with pain.

"When?"

She had not thought to ever tell him. He had never needed to know before, but if he was to marry Cousin Mary, if the young woman had indeed been put through this trauma, Isobel must prepare him before they wed. She would hate to see her son and his new bride struggle through misunderstandings in the most intimate and joyous part of their married life. She might have the means to avert that struggle merely by sharing a small—albeit painful—part of her past. He must be made to understand.

"He was a colleague of my father's," she began. She trembled slightly as she spoke. She had not told anyone of this since she'd shared it with Reginald, on the occasion of their engagement, more than thirty years earlier. "A trusted family friend. He'd always been fond of me and when I finished my training to be a nurse, he helped me to get my first position at St. Mary's. I was so happy to be at a place where I could dedicate myself to helping women and children, to ministering to the underprivileged and the hurting. It was so much more than mere medicine, Matthew. Their stories, their needs, were overwhelming. I could do so little, but I saw how desperate they were for just a little human kindness, and how much a gentle word could help to heal. It was exhausting and exhilarating and I had found my calling." Isobel laughed. "I promised God I would dedicate my life to serving them."

Her humour vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I wanted to, truly. But—I couldn't stay there, not after—" She _would_ push through this, this tightness in her chest that made it difficult to draw a breath. How strange that it should still be this powerful after so many years, and so many good memories since that day. She closed her eyes and imagined Reginald, although it ached terribly to think of him. She focussed on his hands. His dear face had begun to fade from her memory, but she remembered the feel of his hands on her body, his gentle embrace, the way that he would come up behind her as she readied herself before the mirror in the morning. He would hold her close to himself, pressing his cheek against hers with a contented hum. She smiled at the memory. She could go on.

She opened her eyes again and saw Matthew, took comfort in his very real presence. Drawing in a deep breath, she continued:

"He often called me into his office to give me instructions and encourage me, saying that I was making excellent progress. He was very kind, I thought. I had no interest in him beyond a professional friendship, of course. I cared only about helping my patients. I was blind to him." She frowned. "One day, he closed the door to his office and asked for my hand in marriage. I tried to politely refuse, but he was insistent, convinced that I had led him on all along, tempted him even as a child. What sickness was this? To think a child would have ever done such a thing! I tried to reason with him, not seeing the situation I was in, and by the time I did realise it, it was too late. He had backed me into a corner of his office and I was so frightened that I froze at first, too shocked at what was happening to even be able to believe that it was, and at _St. Mary's!_ I tried to fight him off eventually, but he was much larger than I and too strong for me. I was too afraid and ashamed to scream." Isobel rushed on, wanting to be done but knowing that she must finish what she had started. "Afterwards, I asked him how he could ever have loved me if he would do such an evil thing and he spat on me, called me such names as I hope you never hear. He said I was to leave and never return. He would not give me a recommendation; I would never be able to work as a nurse again."

Isobel's eyes were dry and she was proud of this. Her attacker was long dead and she would not give him power over her any longer; he had met his justice in the hands of the Almighty. Vengeance was His. She would think of the man as ill, his soul poisoned, and she would pity him. He owed her nothing. She still bore the scar, but there was no thread of hatred there to continually tug at the edges of the wound and keep it from closing. No, it had closed long ago. She smiled a cold, tight smile and closed her eyes. Her smile turned inward and warmed and she said, _Thank You._

She felt Matthew's hand cover her own and she returned to him, opening her eyes.

"Mother," he said, and for an instant he sounded as he had when he was a child, when he would reach up and touch her face, worried about her and not understanding why she was upset. But he was a man now, and he understood this well enough. There was more to her story, but now was not the time to tell it.

She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand, patted it, and lifted her chin. "I am telling you this because you must know that it may present...problems...for you and Mary. It is very important that you let her take the lead. You will want to lead her and that is right enough—you will be her husband. Eventually, you will be able to. But you must allow her to go at her pace and do not push her if she offers any resistance, no matter how slight. You may need to be very patient. Do you understand me?"

She stared at him intently. She could be more explicit if he needed her to be, but she thought he would be more comfortable if she did not resort to medical terms immediately. Men could be strange creatures about such things. She supposed it had something to do with masculine pride, but whatever the reason, there was no point in pressing him further than he needed to go.

Matthew swallowed and nodded, his eyes wide. "How will I know what to do?" he asked finally, swallowing again.

Isobel smiled. "Trust me, you will. Listen to her; ask if you are uncertain. But I think you will get on very well. I have watched you together."

Matthew pulled a self-deprecating frown and laughed. "I doubt you could have seen much of us getting on well together before last night."

Isobel merely smiled at him. She knew what she had seen. Matthew and Mary might have primarily waged a war of words for the past two years, but their bodies spoke an entirely different language. They were the only two who seemed unaware of it. Isobel had exchanged more than one significant glance with Cousin Violet whilst surreptitiously observing them.

"You will do fine," she assured him, patting his hand. "Don't you worry. Now give your old mother a kiss and off to bed."

"You'll never be old to me," he said, leaning forward to obey.

"Flattery will earn you nothing," she replied, following the familiar exchange and fighting to keep a stern face.

"That's not true." He rose with a satisfied smile as she finally lost the battle to control herself and grinned widely up at him. "I get to see this."

She waved him away. "Go, before you embarrass me," she said sharply.

"Too late," he murmured, smug, and stole another kiss. "Good night, Mother." He paused and looked at her. "You'll be all right?"

"Yes. Will you?"

He sighed and looked at the wall for a moment. "Eventually."

She watched him walk to the door, so terribly proud of him. "Good night, my son."

He opened the door and gave her a final smile, and this time she saw something in his eyes that tempered it. A man, indeed. Mary would find herself safe with him.

After Matthew had left, Isobel realised that her eyes stung and she wiped at them quickly. She had been immensely blessed by her husband and she was so grateful for Matthew. The experience of being loved by two such extraordinary men quite drove out all the old fears and hurts.

She smiled and wiped at her eyes again, quickly setting her glasses and book on the bedside table and hunting for a kerchief to wipe her face. She put out the light and slid down into the bed, pulling the covers over herself and adjusting them until she was comfortable. In this moment, she wished for nothing more than Reginald's arms around her, but she looked inward again and smiled. She knew Who was there, Who always would be, and she knew she could settle into His warm embrace without feeling bereft after she had indulged herself in it. _Thank You_ , she thought sleepily as she grew more comfortable. _You have done a beautiful thing._

* * *

Matthew entered his study, a heaviness weighing on him, and slowly pushed the door closed. Molesley had kept the fire going, but it was dying down. Matthew took the poker and exposed the live coals, then laid another log on top and stood back, watching as the flames rose and licked hungrily at the fresh wood. Setting the poker back in its stand, he crossed over to the shelf beside his desk and poured out a measure of whisky, then brought the glass with him as he went to sit down in the armchair opposite the fire.

There was some small comfort to be found in staring at the flames that were crackling in the grate, sipping his whisky and intentionally letting his mind go blank. It had been a very long day. The drink burned pleasantly in his throat and he took another swallow. There was a tightness in his chest, a tension that neither the drink nor the hypnotic undulations of the flames could reach.

He let out a long sigh, feeling old and weary, too old. He should not have to face this awful knowledge. _But what does it matter that_ I _must face it?_ he asked himself mockingly. _How much worse that they both had_ lived _it!_

He set the glass down on the low table beside his chair and sat forward, covering his face with his hands.

_Oh, God..._

He drew his hands down as he lifted his head, dragging his fingers over his cheeks and drawing in a deep breath. He laced his fingers together, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, and frowned into the fire.

He didn't want these mental images, didn't want to think of his mother or Mary enduring such a thing. But they had. He was certain that whatever his imagination might be able to conjure, it would not reach the awful truth of what these two beloved women had experienced.

And if his mother's unconscious reactions were any indication, what they both would _continue_ to endure. He sat back heavily, frowning. Did one ever fully recover from such an intimate violation?

His mother had gone on, as Mary seemed to be doing. They kept their heads up and their shoulders straight, and there was a fierce light shining in the eyes of them both. He marvelled at their strength, uncertain of whether he could have accepted that kind of assault with such equanimity.

An old image flashed into his mind and he frowned. It had been _years_ since he'd thought of the shock of that moment. He'd been so young: his first year at Radley. He'd been in search of a quiet nook, some out-of-the-way place that he could make his own, to read and think when he needed to be alone. The attics had seemed a promising, if somewhat stuffy, prospect, and he'd filled a rucksack with books and a few treats, then climbed up and explored until he'd found a suitable spot. It was perfect: there was a small window, an old leather armchair that was shiny and worn down to its stuffing on the corners, and piles of unwanted detritus from decades of college life littered about, blocking the view of the armchair from the trapdoor.

It was clear that he had not been the first student to use the place, but as he never found anyone else when he went up there, he imagined himself to be the keeper of a precious secret. He occasionally enjoyed his retreat during afternoon study hours, when he could skive off without being noticed. The usual pace of life at Radley did not allow for much solitude, but it was something that he craved from time to time. Oh, he was athletic enough and got on well with most of the boys his age, but sometimes...one just needed to get away.

His use of the retreat had ended abruptly one day, when he'd mounted the ladder whilst munching on a biscuit and looking forward to an hour of quiet, his mind half-caught on some boyhood daydream, and he met a scene that was forever burned into his mind. He'd been so consumed by his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the squeaking of the floorboards overhead, and when he'd pushed open the trapdoor, he'd been entirely unprepared for what he'd seen. He could still remember the expression of the boy who was bent over, his hands braced on the arms of the chair, half-hidden behind a stack of old slates. It was a mixture of guilt, shame, and shock, his eyes dilated and dark. With fear, Matthew had assumed at the time, but now he was not so sure. For the expression of the other boy was one of—what Matthew now understood to be—ecstasy, although at the time his first thought was that the boy was in pain. Matthew, in his naiveté, had opened his mouth to ask if that boy was hurt and then his voice had choked off when his eyes fell to take in the whole scene. He'd seen animals doing this sort of thing, of course, but to see it like this—and between two _boys_ —

He'd dropped the trapdoor as if burned by hot coals, the shock making his fingers numb, and the heavy door had slammed down on him. He'd lost his grip on the ladder and fallen several feet, landing heavily on his rucksack and getting the wind knocked out of him as his books dug uncomfortably into his spine. He'd scrambled up and run, half-skidding and stumbling down the narrow stairs, until he'd come out into a hall and hidden in a nearby bathroom. He didn't want the boys to catch him; he dreaded seeing them again. They were upperclassmen. He didn't know them, would never have reason to socialise with them, but he knew that he would see them from time to time, and they would see him. His heart had been pounding in his chest and he stayed in the bathroom until he could present the picture of calm once more.

He'd often returned to that scene in his mind, sometimes for prurient reasons, sometimes for merely questioning ones, first trying to deny that what he had seen was, in fact, what it had seemed, and finally coming to accept the reality of it. He'd wondered if the first boy had actually wanted to be in that situation—his expression had been so striking—and Matthew wavered between concluding both possibilities. The question had disturbed him then, and he'd never been able to resolve it. He'd seen his classmates—and the Fellows—around him differently after that. He'd studiously avoided the two older boys and the effort seemed to be mutual. They had never exchanged a word with him, and he'd breathed a sigh of relief when they'd each gone on to university: the threat of confrontation no longer lingered between them.

But his curiosity had been piqued; he could never _unsee_ that moment, and it had become a part of his nascent inclinations. He'd noticed things about his classmates that he might otherwise have paid no attention to, and as he'd grown into a man, he'd never forgotten the scene, as he'd occasionally experienced an attraction to the boys and men around him. It had never been a dominant force, but it remained a part of him nonetheless, sometimes in half-snatches in dreams, sometimes invading his waking thoughts unexpectedly, and it probably always would.

Matthew pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. These thoughts had always been easy to dismiss before, the flashes of attraction passing quickly, but now _Mary_ was before him. His attraction to her had been sudden, overwhelming, and insistent, undeniable in its force and not attenuating over time. If anything, it seemed to increase at each encounter with her. The thought of anyone hurting her, of thinking these kinds of things and then _acting_ on them against her will, made his stomach clench. He wasn't even sure if it was proper to act on these urges after they had wed, even if she were willing to let him. And to _force_ himself on her—

He reached for the glass of whisky and took a hard swallow of the burning liquid.

 _NO_.

His stomach was queasy and he rested the glass on the arm of his chair, feeling his humanity intensely. What stood between him and the very behaviour that so repulsed him? A thin veneer of society, education, and civility? It was a weak barrier in the face of what he knew of himself. No: he would not hurt her—he would die first—but what stayed him was something deeper.

His mother's words of caution had not been necessary; Matthew had already resolved to approach his wedding night with great care and patience. But he was grateful for one thing in particular: her words had given him a stronger reason to hope than mere wishful thinking could provide. If his parents had been able to build a successful marriage on such a foundation, then surely he and Mary could do so as well.

Matthew wished that his father could be with him. For advice, certainly, and also reassurance, but also just for the solid comfort of his mere presence, having walked this path and succeeded so admirably at it. Matthew could imagine his father sitting quietly in the other armchair, watching the fire and savouring his own dram, and for a moment Matthew's heart ached as much as it had the day his father had died.

Then the log sent up a shower of sparks as it fell in the grate, and the moment passed.

 _Father_... Matthew thought, then paused and tilted his head slightly, glancing upwards. He gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. And where had his father gotten his strength from? Who had guided him through his wedding night and the whole of his marriage, for that matter? Matthew _had_ a Father to whom he could always speak, One who would be able to accompany him where his own earthly father never could.

 _Help me, Lord,_ he thought. _I don't know what lies before me. Don't let me hurt her. I just want her to know that she is safe and loved, so terribly much._

He smiled and took another swallow of his whisky, the flames now seeming to dance before him. The familiar answering refrain echoed in his soul.

_Trust Me._


	5. Chapter 5

_5_

**June 1914**

**(One month later)**

Evelyn Napier was bristling and annoyed as he watched Bernadette's receding, elegantly-coiffed head disappearing into the crowd in a fit of pique. How had it escaped his notice that she was the most tediously gossipy cat? The gall! To take pleasure in the unfortunate downfall of another person and to think that he would share in it with her! It was positively ugly. What had he found so attractive in his fiancée? Bernadette Semphill was beautiful to look at, certainly, and her family's wealth made his father's mouth water, but the thought of spending the rest of his days trapped with such a woman made his skin crawl. He turned away in disgust; there was no point in pursuing her across the room. He wanted to be out of her company and he found no pleasure in the chatter of those who called themselves her friends. He searched the crowd for a friendly face; surely there must be someone with whom he could redeem this evening.

Ah. Evelyn smiled. Now _there_ was a welcome relief, and she even appeared to be available for conversation. He started towards her and then frowned as he realised the probable reason why she was standing by herself at the edge of the room: the awful rumour he'd just heard about her was obviously making the rounds this evening. His lip curled in disgust again. At her own sister's ball, in her own family's house! It was such a disgrace—not the content of the rumour, but the total lack of breeding exhibited by the guests who had been welcomed here. Evelyn put on a genuine smile when the target of his attentions caught sight of him.

"Mr Napier!" Lady Mary Crawley said, lighting up immediately. "I hope you're enjoying yourself properly. Your fiancée is lovely; quite the catch. Congratulations."

Evelyn kept the smile on his face as he came to stand beside her. "Thank you. I hear that you are to be similarly congratulated! Lady Sybil was very excited to share the news, as was your mother."

Lady Mary rolled her eyes and smiled. "It's Sybil's ball; I don't know why she isn't making every effort to draw all the attention to herself."

Evelyn grinned. "She doesn't have to make an effort."

Lady Mary smiled as she watched her sister on the dance floor. "She's quite the success, isn't she?"

"You're looking lovely as well," he said with a smile.

"It's nice that someone noticed," she responded dryly. "After that much effort, I ought to be stunning."

Evelyn laughed, relieved but not surprised that she had taken his comment in the spirit in which it was intended. It was so easy talking with her. So different from Bernadette…

He pushed that thought aside and looked out across the dance floor, watching the couples move by. Lady Mary's fiancé was dancing with Lady Sybil. They made a handsome couple and he was acquitting himself reasonably well, which was a small surprise to Evelyn, considering Matthew Crawley's humble origins. The man had seemed sensible enough on the one evening that Evelyn had exchanged pleasantries with him, but he hadn't made much of an impression. It seemed unlikely that Crawley would have had much experience with waltzing before now, but what did Evelyn know of him? Lady Mary had accepted his proposal, but everyone knew that it was because of Crawley's position as Lord Grantham's heir. For all that Evelyn liked Lady Mary, he was under no illusions about her motives. She could be warm and amusing in company, but he knew that ice ran through her veins when it came to making a suitable match. Neither he nor Lady Mary thought much of the institution of marriage or of the poets waxing lyrical about love. This was a game they each had to play and love had nothing to do with it.

Although, given how the game seemed to be turning out for him, even with all the carefully calculated tactics in play, Evelyn was beginning to doubt that being businesslike about the whole matter was a much better strategy. Sometimes he wished the poets weren't just blowing smoke out their arses. He glanced at Lady Mary. He wasn't in love with her and never had been, but if she'd ever shown the slightest interest in him beyond friendship, he would have courted her quite willingly. They had a shared perspective on the world and could probably have worked quite well together. Perhaps he ought to wait for someone more suitable, someone with whom he actually got on. He frowned as the music came to an end, still watching Lady Sybil and Matthew Crawley, and raised his eyebrows when Crawley immediately went over to Lady Edith and appeared to be asking her to dance the next. There was no hint of boredom or obligation about the man's address, and Lady Edith's smile in response seemed perfectly genuine. How unusual.

"So is this Crawley chap worthy of you?" Evelyn asked Lady Mary with a teasing smile. She smirked at his reference, but then grew serious and an expression came into her eyes that took Evelyn quite by surprise. He couldn't name it, but it sent a pang through him.

"The better question is whether I am worthy of _him_ ," she replied.

Evelyn stood back and stared at her. "What's this? Has Cupid actually mended an arrow?"

Lady Mary glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting choice of words. Not 'found an arrow', or 'shot an arrow', or something even more revolting than that?"

Evelyn laughed and then looked back at the dance floor as the music resumed. "A quiver full of broken arrows seemed the best analogy," he replied, then realised how his words must sound and what they revealed about his own situation. He straightened and avoided Lady Mary's inquisitive look. "You didn't answer my question," he pointed out.

"Yes," she said. "To both."

Evelyn raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

"Oh, stop," she said. "You're engaged, too."

That was neither here nor there; they were clearly having two separate kinds of conversation on this topic. He had no interest in his own situation.

"I'm surprised he can dance so well as that," he observed, watching Crawley swing by with Lady Edith, who looked truly happy for the first time that Evelyn could recall. "Lady Edith certainly seems to be enjoying herself."

Lady Mary laughed. "She has little enough opportunity."

That was a little uncharitable, but Evelyn let it pass. He'd never understood the relationship between the two sisters and thought it wise not to try.

"He ought to be able to," Lady Mary said. "We practised with him. Mama thought it necessary to ensure that he and Sybil wouldn't disgrace the family." Evelyn laughed. Lady Mary's expression was briefly wistful. "That was an amusing evening: we cleared the great hall after dinner and waltzed round in circles until everyone was dizzy and Papa finally declared that the family's honour was secure." She gave a short laugh and smiled.

Evelyn watched this speech with raised brows. Lady Mary, it seemed, truly _had_ fallen in love. And with a country solicitor, a distant cousin, of all the unlikely candidates! Evelyn felt the pang in his chest again and he looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He hoped that Crawley didn't catch wind of the rumours that were circulating the room about his fiancée; she deserved to be loved.

"Speaking of which, why aren't _you_ dancing?" he asked.

Mary lifted her chin and put on a thin smile. "Oh, I'm just catching my breath." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you inviting me?"

"Of course, Lady Mary," he said, executing a smart demi-bow in her direction, which made her smirk. "Would you care to dance the next with me?"

She gave his extended hand a brief press and then released him. "I would be delighted, Mr Napier."

"That's settled then," he said, straightening as he looked forward to the current set coming to an end: Lady Mary was a lively and engaging partner. He frowned. "It's a shame that there aren't more invitations coming your way," he said. "They don't realise what a treat they're missing."

"Thank for you saying it."

"Every word is true," he said.

She looked at him for a long moment and then turned away. "I think you know why."

He winced, searching her face. "I just heard; I'm terribly sorry. What an awful business."

Her smile was brittle.

"I should never have brought him to Downton," Evelyn said.

"You couldn't have known."

Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, I did, a bit." Lady Mary turned, her brows raised in surprise. Evelyn sighed and shook his head. "He had a certain effect on people, and a reputation that lends credence to it all, unfortunately."

"But I do not have such a reputation," she replied sharply.

"Of course not!" he said, and frowned. He was not about to point out that she was quite an accomplished flirt when she wished to be. It had made her enemies, he was certain. If only he knew which one had started this vicious rumour. He might suspect that there was some element of truth in it, but that did not mean that she deserved to be exposed.

She looked away again. "Although I find Austen tedious, I can't help recalling a certain line: 'One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.'"

Evelyn gave a rueful laugh. "And the one would be…?" He expected her to indicate himself, but she surprised him again.

"Why, Matthew, of course."

Evelyn looked across the room, watching the dancers complete the set. As the music drew to a close, he saw Crawley bow to Lady Edith. Evelyn glanced at Lady Mary, curious. "You never gave his name, but I rather suspected him to be the 'sea monster' you once mentioned in your letter."

Lady Mary coloured and ducked her head. "Yes. But it was terribly wrong of me. 'Perseus' is a far more fitting description of him."

Evelyn watched the throng of dancers that were leaving the floor, Crawley's head bobbing among them. Evelyn glanced at her again, lowering his voice now that there was a break in the music. "Does he know about what is being said, then?"

Lady Mary nodded.

"And he still went ahead with the engagement?"

"Yes," she replied.

Evelyn pursed his lips and made an appreciative noise. "Perseus, indeed."

When the next piece began, he extended his hand to Lady Mary, she placed her own in it with a small smile, and they stepped out on to the floor. They swayed into the waltz, her frame firm and her feet light, and he simply enjoyed the sense of movement and the happiness evident on her face. He knew that some were probably whispering about them as they passed, but he couldn't care a whit. He and Lady Mary were friends and he hoped that they always remained so. Intelligent people were difficult to come by and were well worth braving the gossips. The rumours always passed eventually, as another unfortunate soul became the next target. Lady Mary was a true lady, and worth the knowing. He smiled and spun her round the floor.

* * *

Matthew took a sip of his drink and smiled as he watched Mary dancing with Evelyn Napier. They moved well together. She really was a splendid partner. Perhaps she'd dance the next with him. He wanted to spend more time with her, but Cora had cautioned him against taking her out too often, saying that it was just not the done thing. It was such a shame, really: how often did they get the chance to dance together? The feel of her in his arms, her body moving with his, her face aglow, was, frankly, intoxicating.

He smiled wryly into his glass and quirked an eyebrow. Perhaps that was why it wasn't done: he did prefer to be in his right mind, especially in such company. He glanced around. Aside from himself and Mother, he wasn't sure that there was another person in the room without a title of some sort. He might be wearing the right clothing and speaking pleasantries to strangers, but what was he doing here? How had he come to be in this position? In moments like these, the sense that his new life was a dream washed over him.

He watched Mary twirl by again, her face serene, and he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She was always at the centre of the dream, drawing him deeper into it. If it weren't for her, he didn't think he would believe in it at all. He'd come to Downton armed and ready to hold the whole lot of them at arm's length, to keep a tight grip on himself and what he valued, and to not let them change him into something he despised. By and large, he had succeeded. Their wealth was overwhelming and their standing in the community was undeniably that of the nobility, but he still found neither feature particularly appealing to him. He preferred a simpler, quieter life. He liked not having an army of servants about, inserting themselves into the intimate details of his life. Being dressed for dinner by Molesley was sometimes convenient, Matthew admitted, but at least the valet had the sense to stay out of the way most of the time, doing more to serve Mother than himself. Matthew was satisfied that he felt himself largely unchanged.

But for Mary.

He was fond of the whole family now and had been for some time, but there was something different about her. In his sappier moments, he considered that perhaps he'd found his soulmate or some such thing. They got on so well together; they seemed to share such an understanding of things that he had only to catch her eye and they would both laugh, or commiserate, or ask a silent question and answer it at once. He hadn't expected such a love to exist, to feel himself so thoroughly understood and to understand another in the same way. Poetry that he'd once read with merely an academic eye now took on a whole new layer of truth when it reminded him of her. A dream, indeed.

He smiled and sipped his drink once more, watching the dancers move about the room. The grand ballroom of Grantham House was quite a stunning sight, with all the women in their silks and feathers, the glittering decorations, and the chandeliers hung above them. He glanced around, but no one else seemed to be taking it in. They either looked bored or were wholly consumed by conversation with their neighbours. He was glad that such an evening was not a common occurrence; his sense of dissociation from it all was quite intense as he admired it with the eye of one unaccustomed to such splendor.

The music drew to a close and his eyes immediately sought out Mary, in the hopes that she might be heading in his direction. She gave Napier a smile and a curtsey and then disappeared towards the doors where Matthew knew the ladies' rooms to be. Ah well, perhaps when she returned, he might ask her to dance again. She would probably reproach him for it and then agree. He smiled to himself and took another sip of his drink, glancing round the room. Sybil had acquired another new dance partner. She seemed to be making quite the impression this evening, and good for her. She was a lovely young woman and deserving of all the attention. Matthew briefly wondered what Mary's ball had been like.

"Ah, Mr Crawley, good to see you again," a voice spoke beside him. Matthew turned and saw Evelyn Napier standing to his left. Matthew nodded.

"Mr Napier."

"Oh, Evelyn, please," Napier said, with a wave of his hand. "I'm as dry as a desert here. Where's a drink when you need one?" He caught the eye of a nearby footman and waved him over, took a glass from the proffered tray. "You?" He lifted another off for Matthew, who nodded and drained the last of his glass. The footman whisked it away and Matthew took the new glass from Evelyn with a smile.

"Thank you. And it's Matthew."

Evelyn took a long swallow and smiled, glancing about the room. "Lord and Lady Grantham always give a lovely party." He smiled at Matthew. "Thank you for lending me your fiancée just now: she really is an excellent partner. It's nice not to have one's toes crushed."

Matthew laughed. "I suspect that's why she's been so eager not to dance with _me_."

Evelyn grinned. "Of course not. She's just maintaining propriety. If she could, she would dance them all with you. She speaks quite highly of you, you know. Oh, and congratulations! It would seem that you brushed up well on your powers of fascination." He quirked an eyebrow at Matthew.

Matthew let out a laugh and looked down a moment.

"It's jolly good of you, by the way," Evelyn continued.

Matthew looked at him. "What is?"

Evelyn shrugged, took a sip from his glass. "You know: sticking with her despite what happened. First class of you."

Matthew frowned. "What do you mean?"

Evelyn looked at him. "I thought—I beg your pardon." He looked genuinely uncomfortable. "I heard—Lady Mary said that you knew—oh, dash it all. I'm sorry. I should never have said anything."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a long moment and then Evelyn said, "She is a rare creature; she ought to be loved."

Matthew nodded, still frowning. "She is, very much."

Evelyn smiled and turned to leave. "Excellent. Well. Congratulations again."

Matthew twisted suddenly, his voice a low growl. "What did you hear?"

Evelyn glanced about, wishing for some excuse to flee, but none presented itself. He knew the smile that was pasted on his face was more of a wince. "There's talk regarding…a certain diplomat." He managed not to flinch, just barely, at the immediate flash of anger in the other man's eyes.

"People are saying things about Mary?"

Evelyn relaxed a little. Matthew's reaction indicated that Evelyn's earlier assumption had been correct: Matthew _did_ know something already. Evelyn wondered what, exactly, Matthew knew, though. Despite being a man who hated gossip, Evelyn was intensely aware that he'd stepped directly into sharing it, and possibly with the last person he ought to tell. He silently apologised to Lady Mary and hoped that nothing came of this conversation. A foolish hope, of course. Matthew was still scowling at him. Evelyn put up his hands, waving his glass.

"I haven't been part of all that," he said, his lip twisting. "I just heard about it—unwillingly, I might add—from Bernadette. Semphill. My fiancée."

Matthew did not offer him congratulations. Evelyn was not offended by this oversight. Matthew's face was dark with anger.

"Look, her engagement to you makes the whole matter moot. They'll have forgotten about it by next Season," Evelyn said.

Matthew looked away, his expression still sour.

"I'm sorry I ever brought him to Downton." Evelyn said.

"As am I."

Evelyn sighed. "I thought she could handle herself. She is always so in command, so poised."

"She could handle herself just fine," Matthew snapped. "It was _he_ who took advantage of _her_."

Evelyn's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. "Oh God," he gasped. "So it's true."

Matthew's stomach dropped like lead and he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd done it again. He'd thought that Napier had already known, given what the man had just said and the friendship that Matthew knew Mary had with him. Matthew realised now that Napier had just played him for a fool. Matthew was out of his depth in such company, having no experience with the intrigues that everyone was clearly accustomed to playing. He suddenly felt ill and the dream dropped away, replaced by the ugliness of this world and all that he despised about it. Who cared a whit for chandeliers and finery when the people here treated each other with such callousness and cruelty? Matthew was just a pawn in their games. Mary was going to tear strips off him for this and he would deserve it. It was no wonder that she was so sharp-tongued and reluctant to reveal her true self: she would have had to be, to survive in this world. His heart twisted at the idea of her being forced to live in such a fashion for the entirety of her life. She was such a warm and generous person when she wasn't afraid. He wished he could carry her away and shield her from it all.

Napier was still standing beside him, looking troubled. Matthew frowned at him, wishing the man would just leave. Hadn't enough damage already been done? Napier turned and smirked at him, flooding Matthew with the sudden desire to land his fist in the man's face.

"Smile and laugh as though I just said something shocking and you realised it was in jest."

"What?"

"Don't look, but we're drawing attention." Evelyn took a sip from his glass and gave a short laugh that sounded forced.

Matthew followed his instructions, but was extremely uncomfortable doing so. He gave Evelyn a tight smile and turned to stalk away. "Enjoy the party, Napier."

Matthew was shocked to feel the man's hand suddenly on his arm.

"Meet me in the small library in ten minutes' time," Napier said, his voice light.

Matthew resisted the urge to shake the hand off; maintaining appearances was important, after all, a voice in his head sneered. Matthew smiled thinly and walked away, not giving an indication of his intentions either way.

* * *

Edith found him near the doors that opened into the entrance hall, where he stood holding his drink and staring at nothing in particular. Couples moved by on the dance floor, but he wasn't watching them. He'd looked for Mary, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Matthew!" Edith said with a bright smile. He shook himself and looked at her.

"Edith," he replied and forced a smile, taking a sip from his glass to hide his discomfort. It didn't work, apparently, because she suddenly frowned at him.

"You look quite pale," she said. "I do hope you're not feeling out of sorts."

"Actually," he said, seizing on the opportunity, "I'm not quite feeling myself." He gestured with his drink. "Too much rich food, apparently." He smiled at his weak jest.

"Oh, well, you should find Carson. He'll see to you. He's amazing at mixing up things for settling one's stomach on an evening like this."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You've had much experience with that, have you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know. It's always one thing or another. Really, you should go find him. I think he was near the smoking room, last I saw."

Matthew glanced towards where she gestured, trying to recall whether the smoking room was just down the hall from the small library. He couldn't remember exactly; he was not that familiar with Grantham House. "I think I'll do that. Thank you, Edith."

She broke into a wide smile. "You're welcome. I do hope you feel better. Should I give Mama your regrets?" She frowned and looked around. "Where's Mary?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

"Probably in the ladies'," Edith muttered. "Touching up, again."

Matthew smiled. "You can tell Cousin Cora if she asks, but if Carson is half as good as you claim, I'll probably be back to dancing before the evening is out."

"I'll hold you to that," Edith said with a smile. "Perhaps another turn about the floor?"

"Let's plan on it."

"Excellent!" she replied. She really was quite pretty when she smiled so freely. He realised with a pang that Mary was not the only Crawley girl to have been raised among wolves. He gave Edith a quick smile and left in the direction that she had indicated.

* * *

While exchanging pleasantries with Lord Strathairn, Evelyn watched Matthew make his way along the far side of the ballroom and disappear into the hall beyond, heading in the direction of the library. Lord Strathairn moved on and Evelyn walked along his side of the ballroom, reaching the cluster of seated women he'd been aiming for. He smiled as they noticed his presence.

"Oh, dear Mr Napier!" Lady Elisabeth exclaimed. "You really must compliment Bernadette on her necklace; she's been beside herself all evening, sure that you must disapprove of it."

Yes, of course, _that_ was why he was out of sorts, he thought sourly, but he kept the smile on his face. He turned his gaze to his fiancée's neck, which was draped with several unusually-long strands of pearls that hung down between her breasts. He pretended to study the necklace carefully and then shook his head.

"I'm afraid, my dear, that it doesn't quite do you justice," he said. When he raised his eyes, he saw exactly the shocked expression that he had been expecting and his smile widened. "I'm just teasing you, darling," he said, leaning forward to take her hand and draw it up for a kiss. "You look marvellous." Which was true; she _looked_ perfectly lovely. It was just too bad that her beauty was only skin deep.

Bernadette smiled and let him kiss her hand. The other women chattered on around them and she took the opportunity to speak while Evelyn was still bent down. "What was all that about with Lord Grantham's heir? He wasn't put out by that silly rumour about Lady Mary, was he?"

Bernadette's words were light and teasing, but the sharpness behind her eyes belied her tone. Evelyn smiled back, annoyed at her perceptiveness and his own lack of discretion, to have given her the opportunity of observing his conversation with Matthew Crawley. "Oh no, nothing of the sort." Evelyn smirked, straightening. "I merely cast aspersions on his dancing. He was quite sensitive about it."

Bernadette wore a satisfied expression. "He ought to be. He barely belongs here as it is. I don't envy her the next twenty years, at least. It'll be a long wait in—" Bernadette leaned closer, "— _Manchester_ , most likely. Can you imagine: Manchester?" She gave a delicate shudder and turned to the others. "What a dirty, smelly place! I wouldn't have accepted him with that prospect before me, even for the whole of the Grantham Estate!"

"It's just as well that you were never forced to make that choice, then," Evelyn replied, putting a teasing tone into his voice and playing with her fingers.

"But he has such beautiful eyes!" one of the other women tittered, and the rest of the circle joined in, giggling as if it were an old joke amongst them.

Evelyn suppressed a sneer and turned it into another smirk. "Really? I hadn't noticed. They don't seem to be serving him very well if he can't see what's as plain as the nose on his face, eh?"

Bernadette laughed with the others and gave his fingers a squeeze before releasing them. "Well said, my dear. He does seem a bit…" she glanced round at the other women, "…out of his depth, doesn't he? A bit like a stray puppy?" They all laughed again.

"Let's just hope that Lady Mary can keep him clear of the source of these rumours, or she'll be out of a title and an estate before she knows what's what," Evelyn said.

"Oh, I doubt that will be possible," Lady Elisabeth answered, looking at him with a certain strange confusion and then smiling, as if they were sharing a private joke. "She's already failed at it once, hasn't she?"

The group of women laughed and before Evelyn could piece together what had just occurred, Bernadette added, "Besides, with the way that Mrs Namli was carrying on, it's a surprise that more people haven't already heard. Mama had her to tea a fortnight ago and it was her main topic of conversation!" Bernadette smoothed her dress and Evelyn's mind spun at this unexpected intelligence. The Turkish Ambassadress? Why would she be spreading gossip about one of their own diplomats, especially one who was dead? These rumours weren't any more flattering to Kemal than they were to Lady Mary. And how had the Ambassadress come by this information in the first place?

Bernadette was still talking, unaware of Evelyn's distraction. "It was quite tedious, actually. And that woman's hair! Have you seen the frightful mess she makes of it? She really ought to dismiss her maid—or wear one of those dreadful Mohammedan scarves everywhere instead." There was tittering all around.

"I think the Mohammedan scarves are quite lovely and feminine," a familiar voice said, to Evelyn's right. The group of seated women all looked at one another, but none responded to this comment. The new voice continued, seemingly unperturbed: "I wonder if I might steal my brother for a moment?"

Surprised, Evelyn looked at Frankie. She was smiling in a fashion that seemed patently false, to him at least.

Bernadette gave an awkward little laugh. "Of course," she said, with a wave of her hand. She smiled up at him and then leaned away to say something to Lady Elisabeth, and he was promptly forgotten. Evelyn smiled at Frankie as he turned away.

"Thank you," he murmured, following her to a nearby entranceway.

"What was that all about?" she asked, frowning at him. "I've never heard you be quite so uncharitable before. I think Matthew Crawley is comporting himself well, all things considered."

"Oh, he is," Evelyn sighed, picking up a glass from a passing tray. He offered it to Frankie, who merely shook her head.

"So?" she raised an eyebrow as he took a sip. "I thought you'd sworn off talking to her."

Evelyn shook his head. "Bernadette had information that I needed."

"Ah, intrigues. Also not your style, so it must be something that she doesn't realise the importance of. And did you get it?"

Evelyn frowned. "I'm not sure." He focussed on Frankie again, watching her give another practised smile as she greeted someone who said her name as they passed by. How had he never noticed how strained her smiles seemed of late? She'd been more reserved than usual, but Evelyn hadn't thought much of it until now. Matthew's words echoed in Evelyn's mind, growing into a dreadful certainty of something that he'd avoided thinking about. Evelyn was uncomfortable with this possible new awareness of Frankie and he looked away. He suspected that he was partly to blame and he was ashamed for not having had the courage to address it sooner. He needed to speak with her, but now was not the time or the place. "What did you need to steal me away for?"

She frowned. "I have a headache threatening," she said. "Do you think you could prevail upon Papa to leave early?"

Evelyn laughed and looked across the room to where their father stood chatting with Lady Rosamund. "It might take some doing. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Frankie winced and glanced in their direction. "I'd rather not speak with her, if I can avoid it. She tends to know far too much and to ask questions that I'm not interested in answering. You don't think Papa's thinking of courting her, do you?"

Evelyn frowned and took another sip. "I shouldn't think so. He's never mentioned her as such before." He glanced at Frankie. "Has he said anything to you?"

She shook her head. "No, but they've been quite cosy for nearly twenty minutes now."

Evelyn laughed. "You haven't had anything better to do than to watch them?"

"I've had a headache developing for some time," Frankie replied tartly. "I was waiting for an opening."

"I'll speak with him. But I need to do something else first."

"More intrigues?"

"I hope not. Putting something to rest, rather. I'll only be a few minutes."

"And if Papa asks where you are?"

"I went to freshen up, of course."

Frankie smirked. "Of course. Don't be too long, brother."

He smiled. "I won't." He gave her a brief peck on the cheek. "You're a dear."

"I know," Frankie sighed as he moved away.

* * *

Matthew frowned down at the London street below. The occasional lorry or car drove past and passersby in mackintoshes, their collars pulled up against the mist, hurried through the pools of yellow light that dotted the length of the street. Why had Napier wanted to speak privately with him? Should he just leave instead of waiting for the man? Was this merely another trap? The tight, slightly nauseated feeling in his stomach remained. He wished that he could see Mary, hold her, ask her forgiveness, be done with this evening already. He'd so been enjoying himself, for a short while at least. It was a shame that anything was marring Sybil's evening. She deserved to have her coming out be an unblemished celebration.

He turned when he heard the door latch click, and Napier stepped through. Matthew frowned at the man as he closed the door.

"What's this about, Napier?"

"Am I correct in understanding your earlier comment to mean that Kemal Pamuk forced himself on Lady Mary?"

Matthew glared at Napier. After a long moment of debating how to respond, he decided on the truth. He had no desire to play games and the heart of the matter had already been revealed. "Yes. The extent of the physical coercion is not clear to me, but she said that when she threatened to scream, he told her that it was already too late: if a man was found in her bedroom, she would be ruined. She felt trapped; she then allowed him to do as he wished." Matthew realised that his fingernails were digging into his palms and he relaxed his hands. When would this evil stop haunting them? "What concern is it of yours?"

Napier shook his head and started to pace the room. "It didn't seem consistent with the man I knew."

"He was a liar, then."

Napier's head snapped up. "No, no more than most men." He quickly put out a hand. "I'm not defending him. The story you just told me makes more sense of it all. Physical force, no. Psychological manipulation, absolutely."

"It was still against her will, Napier."

"I'm not arguing that it wasn't! What he did was reprehensible!" Napier stopped pacing, looked agitated, and returned to pacing again, putting a hand to his forehead. "Damn. What a mess."

Matthew watched him in silence. Napier stopped suddenly. "Oh God."

"What?"

"Did she k—" Napier cut himself off, tried again. "Did he die in retaliation?" He suddenly looked at Matthew, as if seeing him in a new light.

Matthew shook his head. "No, he did not. And I had nothing to do with it. I didn't learn of the death until the next day."

"Of course." Napier frowned a moment. "I was told that he was found dead in his bed, that his heart had given out."

"It had."

"So very odd." Napier looked at him again, but Matthew remained silent, keeping his face blank. He would not be tricked into volunteering any more information. Napier looked thoughtful a moment, then refocussed on Matthew, his gaze suddenly piercing. "So why are the rumours saying that Kemal died in _her_ bed?"

Matthew felt cold. The rumours were that specific? But how…?

Napier took a step closer to him and Matthew's hackles rose.

"You don't deny it," Napier observed. Matthew glared at him. "There are poisons that can cause heart failure, you know."

"How would you know that?"

"What, did you think I was looking after him for my health?"

"This conversation is over," Matthew ground out, crossing the room to leave. He was not going to stand here and listen to this rat accuse Mary of murder, and if he didn't leave now, he was going to do something that he would regret.

"The real question is: how did this rumour even get started?" Napier asked, frowning past him. "Who was in a position to know of it and would be willing to expose Lady Mary?"

"You expect me to believe that it wasn't you?" Matthew snapped, turning to face the man and clenching his fists.

Napier looked at him, shocked. "Of course it wasn't me! From that day to this I have never spoken one word on the matter! Lady Mary is a dear friend." He clapped a hand over his mouth, then immediately drew it away. "Oh God, she probably thinks it was me as well!" His eyes darted to the door. He quickly looked away again.

Matthew was still glaring at him.

Evelyn bit out through gritted teeth: "I swear to you, it wasn't me who started it."

"But you seem to have no objection to spreading it!"

"Listen to me," Evelyn growled, leaning in. "I'm not doing this for my own amusement. According to Bernadette, the Turkish Ambassador's wife has been telling this tale at every opportunity."

Matthew froze. "The Turkish Ambassador's wife? But how did she—?"

"Exactly," Evelyn said.

Matthew frowned. "But why would she? Being murdered in your bed by a woman isn't exactly a flattering story. Why smear Pamuk, especially now?"

Evelyn had been nodding throughout Matthew's speech and he gave a mirthless smile now. "Think about it: one of their diplomats is found dead in somewhat suspicious circumstances, at a time when tensions between certain countries are at a height. Whatever you might think of the man, he was a skilled negotiator."

"Psychological manipulator."

"Same skills, put to good or ill," Evelyn replied evenly. "Removing him from any potential future negotiations might serve someone's interests."

"He wasn't murdered," Matthew shot back. "He died—" He caught himself, scowled at Evelyn. "He died for his sins. If it was anyone's fault, it was his own. Call it an act of God."

Evelyn narrowed his eyes. "Invoking God isn't a particularly helpful explanation."

"I'll not say more on the topic. But I know his heart gave out on its own, without any assistance from poisons or the like."

"Very well. Let's assume that you're right. Think about it from the Turks' point of view: one of their diplomats died in unusual circumstances, the examination of the body yielded no satisfactory cause of death aside from the symptom of a heart failure, and they are suspicious of foul play because of the political situation."

Matthew looked away, a new chill coming over him. "They can't demand a formal inquiry without reasonable evidence…"

"Not without provoking an international incident," Evelyn nodded. "And even with reasonable evidence, it would need to be ironclad. What would you do in such circumstances?"

"Seek justice through informal channels," Matthew muttered.

Evelyn shrugged. "Justice. Or simply attempt to flush out more information."

Matthew paced to the window, glanced at Evelyn. "Do you think they suspect Mary? Is she in any danger?"

Evelyn shook his head. "I doubt it. She's of no real interest to them. She's merely a conquest: a bored, rich young woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, they're searching for a bigger target."

Matthew turned in shock. "Robert?"

Evelyn shrugged. "Perhaps. He's the most likely candidate: he has wartime experience, powerful connections, and would be expected to have the ability to keep such an incident quiet should it occur in his own house." Evelyn caught Matthew's expression and put out a hand. "Don't concern yourself about Lord Grantham. You and I both know he's not capable of such an act. But they don't."

"Is _he_ in danger?"

Evelyn frowned. "I don't think so. They won't try to act without something more than an unconfirmed rumour about his eldest daughter." His frown deepened. "Unless it's been confirmed, somehow, which might be why they're being so bold…but even then, Lord Grantham would need to be directly implicated to be in any danger and from what I've heard, he doesn't even factor into the story."

Matthew debated telling Evelyn that Robert hadn't even known about the event until a few weeks ago, but he held his tongue. Such information would come to light if there were an inquiry. There was no reason to expose Robert's being so effectively kept in the dark for so long: it would imply that he was not the master of his own household. Speaking of which…

"Did you know which room was hers?" Matthew asked.

"What? Of course not. Did you?"

"No, and I still do not."

Evelyn gave him a tight smile.

"So how did _he_ know?" Matthew asked. "How did he find her without alerting anyone else?"

Evelyn shook his head and frowned at the floor. "I don't know."

"Do you think it could be one of the servants?" Matthew wondered aloud. Evelyn's head shot up as Matthew continued: "Perhaps one of them helped him, then gave the information to the Turks? But why would they…?"

Evelyn started to pace again. "Very possibly. You know the household staff: is there anyone who is in financial trouble right now, who would be motivated to do such a thing? Any tensions between the family and the downstairs set?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I don't know the servants _that_ well," Matthew muttered, but it didn't take much effort for a likely candidate to float to the front of his mind. He had no idea if Thomas was having financial troubles, but Matthew hadn't trusted the man from their first acquaintance. And now that he considered the matter, he wondered if Thomas would have been in the perfect position, not only to know where Mary's room was, but to also have been Pamuk's valet. Or William or Carson might have been. Or even Bates. Surely Anna would never have betrayed Mary's confidence. Matthew would need to ask Carson, but he balked at the very thought. He could not start making such inquiries!

"Lord Grantham will want to know about this," Evelyn said. "Should I…?"

"No; I'll take care of it," Matthew said. "Meanwhile, if you could make any inquiries…"

Evelyn nodded, moving towards the door. "Oh, don't worry, I have every intention of doing just that."

"I must confess," Matthew said, giving Evelyn pause just before he reached the door. "You didn't seem particularly surprised by what I said about Pamuk. I thought _he_ was your friend, too."

Evelyn straightened and winced. "He was, but Kemal…I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but Kemal had a reputation. You saw the effect he could have. I knew of it and still I brought him with me." He shook his head. "God, what an idiot I was!" He glanced at Matthew, who was staring at him, a question obvious on his face. Evelyn sighed. "Mary isn't the first person whom I have reason to suspect he…behaved badly with."

Matthew's face clouded over. "There have been others?"

Evelyn shook his head. "I'll not speak of it. I didn't come to trade gossip and I expect not to hear that a word of this has been spoken of after this moment."

"Of course," Matthew replied, but his tone was reserved. He eyed Evelyn and Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. This conversation had become a sort of nightmare, forcing unwanted images into his mind. Evelyn frowned and turned his mind away from the other man's silent inquisition.

He nodded his thanks to Matthew, twisted the knob, pulled the door open—

—Mary stumbled in. The two men stared at her.

She regained her composure quickly and looked at Matthew, holding out what appeared to be a glass of soda-water. "Edith said that you had a stomach upset; I had Carson make you one of his magic tonics."

"Thank you," Matthew replied, crossing the room to take it from her. He looked between her and Evelyn. "I take it you heard everything?"

"I heard enough," she said. She looked at Evelyn. "Please keep Matthew and me informed of any developments. I don't want to worry my father unless absolutely necessary."

"Of course," he replied. He paused, then said: "I'm so sorry, Lady Mary."

She shrugged. "It wasn't your fault."

"Still," Evelyn grasped the doorknob, his hand tightening around it. "I feel some responsibility."

"But not for me, necessarily," Mary replied, her chin raised. Evelyn's eyes widened and then he nodded. He gave them both a tight smile. "Good night."

"Good night," Matthew said. "And thank you."

Evelyn left the room. Mary nodded at the glass in Matthew's hand.

"That wasn't necessary, I take it?"

"Actually," Matthew said, and took a swallow. He closed his eyes. His stomach was still tight and slightly out of sorts. The fizziness of the drink was a welcome sensation.

"So what are you going to take care of?" Her tone had lost its softness.

Matthew's eyes shot open. She'd heard far less of the conversation than he'd assumed, but she'd covered her ignorance with expert ease. He couldn't help but admire her skill. How much should he tell her? He didn't want her to feel unsafe in her own home.

"What did you hear?" he asked.

"Not much," she admitted. "I was looking for you—Edith said you'd disappeared off this way—and I heard voices. Something about information that Papa should know? And why were you talking about Kemal Pamuk?"

Matthew winced. "Mr Napier made a comment in the ballroom—" He frowned. "—which I realise now was probably entirely innocent, but it angered me at the time and I said more than I intended to. I was trying to defend you."

"Matthew!"

"I know, I know." He closed his eyes a moment.

"You're making a worrying habit of this."

"I'm so sorry," he said, opening his eyes again. "I was berating myself the moment the words left my lips." He sighed. "Can I ask you to forgive me again?"

Mary pursed her lips. "If I know Mr Napier, it was not _entirely_ innocent, although I would have thought it at least well-intentioned." She quirked an eyebrow at Matthew. "I don't hold you solely responsible. You _are_ somewhat out of your depth with my kind of people."

He gave her a wounded, amused look. "I thought I was improving on further acquaintance."

"Oh you are, with the family. But we're all as gentle as doves, even Granny."

He laughed. "So it would seem."

"With the possible exception of Edith," Mary muttered, although with an air of it being more out of habit than with any actual rancour. "But I would have thought Mr Napier relatively innocuous." She frowned. "I'm surprised at his lack of discretion. I'd thought him a better man than this."

Matthew shook his head. "He was quite insistent that he was not the source of these stories and I believe him. From what he'd heard, they appear to be originating from the Turkish Embassy. The Ambassadress has been spreading the story."

She frowned. "But who told them, if not Mr Napier?"

Matthew blew out a frustrated breath and gestured with his free hand. "We don't know yet. That's why he's going to make inquiries."

"And you're going to do the same from Downton," Mary nodded. "Hence the need to speak with Papa."

Matthew nodded and stared down at the glass in his hand.

"Hmm. Tricky," she murmured.

"Would Anna have any reason to—?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary answered. "She would be just as implicated as I would be if news of the story got out and her name was associated with it. Whoever would spread such stories about me would have no qualms about exposing a mere servant. She would never work again."

"But do you trust her?"

"Implicitly," Mary replied. "She has more than enough to have buried me ages ago, but she's never breathed a word of it to anyone."

"Really?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "There's more?"

Mary pursed her lips with a smile. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He smiled back. "Actually, I would. I shouldn't like to be surprised _after_ we're married."

"Not at all?" Mary took a step closer to him, still smiling. "I should _hate_ to be predictable."

He smiled and leaned towards her.

"In any case," she said, straightening, "we should step carefully. We can't begin accosting our former guests. It may just be a lucky guess on someone's part. I certainly made no secret of my attachment to him during the hunt; one of the other riders may have made a comment that was overheard by someone with an overactive imagination. It's a salacious enough story to have attracted attention."

He wasn't sure if she was taking the suggestion of a servant's involvement seriously enough, but he wasn't going to press the matter right now.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

"Wait and see if anything turns up," she shrugged. "Don't ruffle any feathers until absolutely necessary."

"But Robert might be a target."

Mary frowned. "Whatever for?"

"On suspicion of murder, Mary. Why do you think the Turks are spreading the story at all?"

"But wouldn't they suspect me, rather? Papa had nothing to do with it. And Mama didn't mention overhearing anything regarding him when she was in the ladies'."

"Napier doesn't think they care about you. He said something about you merely being bored and rich and caught in an unfortunate situation."

Mary smirked. "I suppose I shouldn't be put out at being so easily dismissed."

"Not in this case, no." His smile was twisted.

She nodded at his glass. "You'd best not waste Carson's efforts. I had to take him away from coordinating an army of waiters to mix it."

Matthew laughed and downed the rest of the liquid. "Thank you for this," he said.

"Feeling better?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled. "Not quite yet."

She took the empty glass from him, set it down on a nearby end table, and came back.

"I'm sorry about all this," she said quietly.

"This was _not your fault._ "

She frowned. "I know you don't think I bear any responsibility in this, but I know my own heart, Matthew. I was not entirely innocent."

"I know that," he said, putting his hands on her upper arms, "and I'd be the first in line to protest your sainthood." He gave her a lopsided smile, which she returned. She looked down. He moved his fingers to her chin, lifted it. "But aside from your initial flirting, I don't see just cause for censure. Your behaviour was not tacit permission for his actions, however he may have interpreted it. You never wanted any of this, Mary. Don't take on more than your due, either."

"I never thought to put _Papa_ in danger."

"You might not have," he answered, moving his hand back to her arm again and giving the bare skin above her glove a caress with his thumb. "Nothing may come of this. If they had stronger evidence, they would not be merely spreading idle stories."

Mary nodded, looking down again.

"I don't know if I can do this," she sighed.

"Do what?"

"Brave the storm."

He smiled. "You're strong. A storm-braver if ever I saw one."

She looked uncomfortable, not meeting his eyes. "I wonder. Sybil's the strong one: she really doesn't care what people think, but I'm afraid I do."

He regarded her a moment, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. He paused to draw in the scent of her, closing his eyes. They had so little opportunity to be alone together that he did not want to waste another second of it on such conversation. He felt her move and he drew back as he opened his eyes. Her face was tilted towards his. She moved and he closed his eyes again, meeting her lips with his own. He thrilled as he felt her hands slide round his waist, under his dinner jacket, and he lifted his own hands up to cradle her jaw, spreading his fingers on either side of her neck. The lengths of their bodies barely brushed each other as the hem of her dress rustled against his ankles.

"There you are!" Cora's voice cut in with intentional cheer. They sprang apart and turned to face her. She had a broad smile on her lips, but her eyes were sharp. "I've been searching all over for you!"

"Well, you've found us, Mama," Mary observed dryly, smoothing her dress.

"No sneaking off, you two! Your father would be beside himself if he discovered you."

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" Mary asked in a sharp tone.

Cora tilted her head down, giving Mary a scolding look. "Not if you come away directly," she said, and glanced at Matthew. He pressed his lips together in a reasonable imitation of a smile and struggled to regain his composure.

"I apologise for keeping Mary, Cousin Cora," he said. "She came looking for me because she'd heard I had a stomach upset."

"I know," Cora smiled at him. "I did the same."

"Oh yes, I'm sure _that_ was why you came," Mary replied. "Thank you for retrieving us, Mama." She started towards the door and Matthew followed her. Cora went out ahead of them.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked Matthew.

"Somewhat," he replied. "Carson's tonic is slowly taking effect."

She gave him a polite smile, clearly not believing that he'd been ill at all.

Matthew couldn't bring himself to care; the taste of Mary still lingered on his tongue. He smiled. He leaned close to her as they walked the hall behind her mother. "Take a turn with me?" he murmured.

Mary shot him a sideways look, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "Of course. I'll dance the next two with you." At Cora's surprised glance back at them, Mary continued: "And if anyone objects, I'll find a less public place for us to _continue dancing_."

"You wouldn't!" Cora exclaimed. "Mary!"

Mary raised her eyebrows and did not reply. Matthew laughed.

"I wouldn't let her," he assured Cora.

Mary shot him a look of betrayal, but he ran a hand down her forearm and curled his fingers briefly with hers. She squeezed back and released him and all was forgiven. Matthew smiled as they stepped into the brightness and celebration of the ballroom.


	6. Chapter 6

_6_

**July 1914**

**(One week later)**

"Mr Crawley, my lady," Pritchard announced. The Dowager Countess turned from her letter-writing in surprise as Matthew entered and gave the butler a nod of thanks.

"Come in. Sit down, my dear boy," she said, laying down her pen. Her interest was piqued by the unexpected visitor. "What brings you here? Nothing dreadful, I hope."

Matthew sat and looked uncertain a moment. She raised her eyebrows at him. He ducked his head briefly, to hide a smile, she was certain. She did not like to be found amusing, at least not unintentionally so.

"Something amuses you?" she asked.

He raised his head, quickly schooling his features. "You gave me such a strong impression of Mary just now," he said, smiling openly. "Of what I have to look forward to."

She lifted her head, satisfied, and pursed her lips. "But surely that was not why you have come to disturb my letters."

"Ah, no, of course not," he replied, the smile dropping away. "A situation has arisen, and…I'm not quite sure which way to turn."

"Well, obviously, if you've turned to me."

"The matter possibly concerns Robert's safety, but I don't want to worry him unnecessarily. It concerns Mary as well, but I don't want to create an atmosphere of distrust at Downton and make their home uncomfortable for them."

"Dear me! It _does_ sound dreadful," Violet exclaimed, sitting forward. "What is this about?"

Matthew frowned. "Do you recall the matter involving Kemal Pamuk?"

Violet frowned. "Of course."

"Yes, well…when I was in London, I learned it might not be put to rest just yet."

"Are you referring to the Chinese whispers that were making the rounds at Sybil's ball last week?" Violet asked.

"Yes."

Violet pursed her lips. "I don't see how such idle gossip could threaten Robert or the sanctity of the house. Mary's prospects _would_ be materially damaged were it not for your engagement. As it is, these stories will be entirely forgotten by the new year, I'm certain of it."

Matthew nodded. "Yes. That's not what concerns me. What does is the fact that these rumours seem to have come from the Turkish Embassy."

"Ah," Violet said and sat back, narrowing her eyes. She regarded him a moment. "How did you come by this information? Do you have any reason to think it suspect?"

"I do not."

"And you are afraid one of the servants might have sold information to the embassy?"

"I have no proof."

"Of course not," she replied. "If you did, you wouldn't be sitting in my parlour."

"But if someone at the house cannot be trusted…"

"Surely Robert can be in no actual danger," she said. "It is unlikely that the Turks will act: if they could have, they would have done so well before now. Do you have more than hearsay on that point?"

Matthew looked down. "Not at this time, no."

"Then let us dismiss that concern for the time being. Now, as to the matter of the servants: I think it highly unlikely that any would betray the family for so small a reason as money."

Matthew looked sceptical, but remained silent.

"It could be one of them, of course," she said, "but have you considered the matter of the other guests? Mr Napier, I think it was, who accompanied the Turk? Or any of the others who went on the hunt?"

"Mr Napier is not under suspicion," Matthew said.

"Was he the source of this intelligence?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

She made a disapproving sound. "He would have been in the perfect position to start such a rumour. Mary slighted him, if I recall."

"She slighted me as well, if you recall," Matthew said.

Violet was unimpressed. "Are you certain he is not harbouring any ill will towards her? There may be some greater regard on his part. They exchanged several letters, or so my spies tell me."

"No, I do not believe he harbours any strong feelings for Mary. They are merely friends. Besides, he is engaged to someone else."

Violet waved a hand. "That is neither here nor there. One can easily be engaged to one person and be in love with someone else."

Matthew looked sceptical at this as well, but only said, "In any case, I do not believe Mr Napier should be under suspicion."

"Very well. And you have no reason to suspect that any of the other guests may have started the rumours?"

"They _are_ Mary's preferred suspects at the moment," Matthew said. "But no. And I cannot make any enquiries without alerting Robert first, of course."

Violet winced. "Oh, my dear, you should not even consider making enquiries. Leave them to me. Men are always so heavy-footed about such things." She frowned. "I thought you said you cannot talk to Mary about this? How then can she have an opinion?"

"I…have not broached the topic of the servants with her," he said. "At least, when I tried, she seemed affronted and refused to even consider it."

Violet nodded. "Very well. Since you have asked me, my advice is to tell Robert. I do not think he will be terribly worried by unfounded speculation about a threat to himself, but in any case, he does need to know of it to deal with the staffing matter. If you do tell him of the possible threat, he is quite capable of making enquiries of his own, if he thinks it necessary."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you, Cousin Violet."

She nodded as he stood. "Matthew, I meant to say: your defence of Mary in the Pamuk matter was superb, and I could not be more pleased to have you as a grandson. You will make a splendid earl one day."

Matthew looked taken aback, and then he smiled. "I—thank you. For saying that."

She pursed her lips. "Now off with you. I have business to attend to, and a whole new array of letters to write. Will you ask Pritchard to send Simmons in?" She turned back to her desk and muttered, "That is, if she's not out waiting by the gate again."

Matthew paused as he reached the door and frowned. "I didn't see anyone by the gate when I arrived," he said.

Violet waved him away. "Never mind about that. Good day." She turned again. "Oh—will I see your mother for dinner tonight?"

Matthew's eyebrows shot up. "I don't know. She didn't mention anything to me."

"Only, I think I might take the car into the village and I might not be back in time to receive her properly."

"Should I tell her you want to cancel?"

"Oh no," Violet replied with a smile. "She won't be bothered if I'm not ready to receive her in all my state. I just wouldn't want her to think I've forgotten our appointment, is all."

"I'll relay the message," Matthew said dryly, opening the door.

"Very good of you." Violet bent her head over her desk again, dismissing him.

* * *

"Mr Crawley, my lord," Carson said, standing aside as Matthew walked into the library. The butler left and closed the door behind him.

Robert looked up. "Ah! Matthew. Excellent. I just need a moment." He returned to the sentence he'd been writing, finished it, and set down his pen, capping it as he did. He pushed the papers back into his portfolio and rose. "Jarvis tells me they've made good progress on the Farnsworth cottage: let's stop by there this morning."

"Fine with me," Matthew said. He was holding his cap and Robert noticed that he was twisting it slightly. Robert frowned as he walked towards Matthew.

"Is there something the matter?"

"There might be. Robert, there's something I need to tell you."

Robert came to stand in front of him with his eyebrows raised. "Nothing's amiss between you and Mary, is it? I'd wondered why she came back from London before Cora and the girls. I thought perhaps it was to see you, but you haven't been about any more than usual."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "No, there's nothing amiss…at least, not that I know of."

"Ah, well, never mind that, then." Robert smiled, gesturing towards the doors that opened on to the lawn. "What is it? Can we walk and talk?"

Matthew frowned. "I thought—" He swallowed. "You might want to speak with Carson after what I have to tell you."

Robert paused, concerned. "What's this about?"

Matthew straightened his shoulders. "While in London, I learned that there are some disturbingly accurate stories circulating about…about Mary and Kemal Pamuk."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "Cora mentioned something about this several months ago, but she said that the rumours were vague. 'Disturbingly accurate', you say?"

"Yes. Very much so."

Robert frowned. "I thought the rumours then to be merely malicious gossip, taking advantage of an awful situation. How could anyone have learned of more specific details now?"

"That's what I wondered," Matthew said. "From my enquiries, it appears the story is originating from the Turkish Embassy. The Ambassadress herself is spreading the tale."

Robert paced. "No wonder she came home early!" He frowned. "Although, it's not at all like Mary to run from such a thing. Fleeing would only serve to give the appearance of confirming them."

"I don't think she left London because of the stories." Matthew said, glancing away.

"But surely she must know of them!" Robert growled, putting a hand on his hip. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."

"What does it matter?" Matthew asked. "We'll be married soon."

Robert glanced at him, gave him a tight smile, and nodded. "True enough. The Turkish Embassy, you say? What concerns you, then, if it's not Mary's reputation?" He dropped his hand and approached Matthew again.

"Your safety."

"Mine? What have I to do with it?"

"Evelyn Napier thought—"

"Napier!" Robert scowled. "He probably started the stories in the first place."

"I do not believe so," Matthew said. "I gather he still has some formal role in the diplomatic arrangements, although I do not know what it is. He is concerned that the Turks suspect murder and are trying to retaliate, or at least get more evidence by seeing what new stories might emerge. Tensions remain over the issue of Albania. Pamuk was influential in the negotiations; they probably think someone was trying to remove him from the talks and arranged for his murder."

"And I would be the most likely suspect," Robert muttered. He looked at Matthew. "Did you assure him I had nothing to do with it?"

"I didn't need to. He seems to have a good enough opinion of you to hold you above suspicion already."

Robert gave a short laugh. "Not to mention that I was kept in the dark by my own family for more than a year."

Matthew did not respond to that.

Robert waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not concerned for my safety. If they had anything to accuse to me with, they would have done so by now."

"That's what Cousin Violet said."

Robert nodded, then glanced at Matthew, amused. "You approached Mama first."

"I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily. I didn't know where else to turn."

"Obviously," Robert replied. Matthew smiled at the floor, then looked up again when Robert spoke. "So the real question is: did the Turks just make an unbelievably lucky guess, or did someone share privileged information with them?"

"Exactly." Matthew looked pained. "Hence the possible need to speak with Carson."

Robert drew in a breath through his nose and straightened. "You think it was one of the servants."

"Or it might have been one of the other riders who joined the hunt that day."

"But none remained for dinner, nor stayed the night, save for Mr Napier," Robert squinted as he recalled that evening. He'd already gone over what few memories of it he had; nothing stood out now that had not occurred to him before.

"So…I wondered: how did Pamuk find her room?" Matthew asked. "How could he have discovered it without rousing anyone else? He must have had help."

"But it does not follow that whoever helped him—if someone did—would also start spreading tales about it."

"Yes, but that person would be in a position to know the truth of Pamuk's death," Matthew said. "Outside of Mary, Cousin Cora, and Anna, of course."

"It couldn't be Anna."

"I agree, and Mary is quite convinced it isn't."

"She hasn't _asked_ her, I hope!" Robert looked horrified.

"No!" Matthew said quickly. "No one's been approached, outside of yourself and Cousin Violet."

"Good." Robert frowned, then said to himself, "But there's no reason why one of the servants would betray the family! They are well-paid, well-treated."

Matthew looked as though he were about to say something, but he held his tongue. Robert frowned at him. He hated this sort of business, creating an air of distrust in the house. They could only be comfortable in their home if they were confident that all who lived here were trustworthy…but not all necessarily were, Robert thought sourly. He strode across the room to ring the bell, then returned to Matthew.

Carson appeared, glancing between the two men. "You rang, my lord?"

"Yes, Carson, would you come in, please, and close the door?"

Carson nodded and strode towards them as the door swung closed.

"Carson, do you remember the night we had that Turkish diplomat stay with us?"

Carson frowned. "I do."

"And do you recall who was valet for the diplomat that night?"

Carson paused a moment, then said: "It was Thomas, I believe. Bates saw to you, William saw to Mr Napier, and Thomas saw to Mr Pamuk. Thomas was quite distraught the next morning, after finding the gentleman. Why these questions, my lord?"

"Did Thomas mention anything out of the ordinary?"

Carson frowned. "Other than that the gentleman was dead?"

"Yes, other than that."

"Not that I recall. He was quite shaken. I've never seen him so unlike himself, to be frank."

"Do you know of any special…connection…between Thomas and Mr Pamuk?" Robert asked. He and Carson both raised their chins in silent understanding and then Carson frowned and shook his head.

"No, I do not."

Matthew watched them, also frowning, but said nothing.

"Thank you, Carson. That will be all."

"Do you wish to speak with Thomas?"

"No. And we know of nothing that he has done wrong. He is not to be treated any differently."

"Of course, my lord." Carson inclined his head briefly and then strode out of the room. Robert looked at Matthew, who was watching Carson's receding form, still frowning.

"You do not like Thomas," Robert observed, after Carson had left.

Matthew's head snapped round. "I neither like him nor dislike him."

"But you do not trust him."

Matthew sighed. "I don't know what to believe. I will not judge him without certain proof."

"Very good," Robert said. "Well, I consider this matter closed. Thank you for informing me of it." He smiled and strode towards the doors leading out on to the lawn. "Shall we go find Jarvis and take him to task about his progress?"

Matthew laughed and turned to follow him. "Of course not. I'm sure he's making fine progress."

"We'll see," Robert grinned and stepped outside. "Pharaoh! Pharaoh! Come here, boy! Pharaoh!"

But as he strode across the lawn with Matthew behind him, Robert frowned. Matthew had been right to raise the issue of Mr Pamuk's troubling knowledge. Thomas might have been involved, but without more evidence, Robert was reluctant to confront him. Doing so might become unavoidable, however: the circumstances were deeply unsettling. Mr Pamuk could not have caught a stray glimpse of Mary emerging from her room before dinner, or when they both went upstairs to wash after the hunt: the architecture of the house purposely did not allow for such a happenstance.

Mr Pamuk _had_ been able to discover her room, however, without alerting someone else to his presence. Such an oversight would have required a serious lack of coordination amongst the servants, and that was of deeper concern. Guarding the family's privacy when guests were in residence was a key aspect of Carson's job. What was the point of assigning valets to male guests if they weren't being managed properly? Normally this management of the guests occurred with such surreptitious ease that Robert gave it no thought, but some slip, some lapse in vigilance, must have occurred. Perhaps it was simply a matter of reiterating the protocols with Thomas and William and the maids.

This situation required further discussion with Carson, but not with Matthew present. Matthew would not be made privy to such arrangements until after he and Mary returned from their honeymoon. If Mary was able to convince Matthew to move into the house, that is.

"Ah!" Matthew said with a laugh. "Eau de wet dog!"

Robert glanced at Matthew and then followed his gaze across the lawn. Pharaoh was just then bounding up to them. When the dog arrived, he stopped and shook himself, sending a fine spray of droplets in every direction. Robert laughed and watched Pharaoh dash round them and then dart away again. He squinted across the grounds and saw Barnard coming over the hill from the lake with three more hounds on his heels.

"Barnard must have taken them for a dip in the lake," Robert mused with a smile. "I mentioned to him this morning that Pharaoh could use a bath."

"Had he gotten into something?"

Robert grinned. "Something quite fragrant, apparently, as it prompted a comment from Cora."

"It sounds serious indeed," Matthew said with a grin.

"It was," Robert said with a smile. "A tip: keep your wife happy."

Matthew chuckled. "You make it sound a challenge."

"It is," Robert said. "Every day. But it's worth it."

Matthew smiled and nodded. "I look forward to it."

"Good." Robert watched Pharaoh run back to greet his fellows and he whistled for the dog again, giving Barnard a brief wave as the gamekeeper veered off towards the stables with the other dogs in tow. "Farnsworth Cottage, then," Robert said briskly as he watched Pharaoh return to him. "Now what were you saying about laying new sewer lines? Jarvis said the plumbing seemed in fine order."

Pharaoh trotted up alongside him and they continued across the lawn, discussing the modernisation of the unoccupied cottages, as Matthew argued for investing more vigorously in the future and Robert listened with only half an ear, his mind occupied with how he would approach the unfortunate but necessary conversation with Carson.


	7. Chapter 7

_7_

Robert felt a strange sense of timelessness when he stepped inside the servants' entrance, quietly closing the door behind him. The hallway was empty, and aside from an unfamiliar item or two that someone had left behind, it looked so exactly like he remembered it from his childhood that he paused a moment to take it in. He half-expected Little to step out and smile fondly at him and offer him a peppermint, but then Robert blinked and remembered that the old butler had passed away more than thirty years earlier. Strange that the place should feel so…unchanged. But he never came down here, and Carson had never mentioned a need to update the facilities, and there it was.

He started to go down the short flight of steps but then stopped himself, remembering, and frowned down at his shoes. He blew out a breath and bent down to quickly unlace both of them before straightening up again in relief. He gingerly pried them off and left them on the landing. Bates would bring them up later.

He started down the steps again but was pulled up short by a pair of huge grey eyes set in a pale, elfin face. She was tiny and only vaguely familiar, as he'd had no reason before now to speak with her or really even look at her. He put on his warmest smile, which seemed only to make her eyes widen further.

"Daisy, is it?" he asked gently, acutely aware of how unexpected his presence was below stairs. The girl nodded quickly in wide-eyed silence. "You're the kitchen maid, is that correct?"

She gave a brief nod, swallowed, and made a sudden bob, looking down.

"Yes, Your Lordship." Her voice trembled.

He put out a hand to catch her eye and encourage her to look up at him again. "You're doing a wonderful job, you know," he said, and her eyes shot up to his in shock. "Thank you for making sure all the rooms are warm for us in the morning. Lady Grantham very much appreciates it, as do I."

Daisy's wide-eyed stare slowly morphed into a very tentative almost-smile before she quickly looked down again. "Thank you, my lord," she said faintly.

"Is Carson about?" Robert asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

Daisy glanced nervously to the side and started to turn round, but then seemed unsure whether she ought to turn her back on him and so she stopped moving, instead throwing out her arm in a quick gesture towards the hall behind her, before bringing her hands back together to clasp them tightly.

"I…think so, Your Lordship," she said.

He smiled at her and opened his mouth to ask for further directions.

"Lord Grantham!" Mrs Hughes said, coming briskly down the hallway. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Mrs Hughes," he said, slightly relieved to no longer be addressing someone who was so clearly frightened by him. Proper respect was his due, of course, but he never wanted to engender fear in his servants. "I'm looking for Carson. Where might I find him?"

"He should be back upstairs shortly," Mrs Hughes said, drawing up beside Daisy. "Why didn't you just ring for him or send someone down? Is something the matter?"

Robert glanced sheepishly behind him and gestured towards his shoes. "I'm afraid I wasn't paying as much attention as I ought to have while I was out and I stepped in something that Pharaoh had just left behind." Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, but smiled. "I didn't want to make a dreadful mess in the entranceway."

"Next time, my lord, feel free to make a dreadful mess in the entranceway. That's what William is there for."

"I know…" Robert said, glancing past her, and noting with some amusement that several heads suddenly disappeared back into doorways and behind corners. "But that's not the only reason I came in this way. I was hoping to speak with Carson without being disturbed."

"Ah," Mrs Hughes said. "Of course, my lord. If you'll just follow me. Daisy, go fetch Mr Carson. He's in the back hall."

"Yes, ma'am," Daisy said, scurrying to obey.

"That was very kind of you," the housekeeper said, as he followed her down the hallway towards the butler's pantry. "What you said to Daisy."

"Every word is true," he said with a smile.

Mrs Hughes glanced at him with a pleased expression. She rapped on the closed door to Carson's pantry and, hearing nothing, pushed it open with one arm, then stepped back to let Robert in. The room was much smaller than he remembered it being.

"Mr Carson will be with you right away, Your Lordship," Mrs Hughes said. "If you'll just wait here."

"Of course," Robert nodded, continuing to glance about the room, taking in the open ledger on Carson's desk, along with several other items that Robert didn't know the exact use of. He bumped his knee into a chair and stepped back. Sometimes it was easy to forget that such a room existed in the house, and that it was entirely normal for people to move about in a space so cramped. Robert frowned as he glanced about, and then he settled himself in the chair to wait.

* * *

Carson emerged from the bathroom to find an agitated Daisy standing in the hallway.

"Daisy?" he said with a frown. "What is it?"

"Mr Carson, sir, His Lordship is waiting for you!"

Carson strode out. "Thank you, Daisy."

"Sir—" she said, hurrying after him.

"Yes? What is it?" He paused and turned to frown down at her. "I can't keep His Lordship waiting."

"That's just it, sir: he's in your office."

Carson stared at her in disbelief. "My office. Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham and Viscount Downton, is waiting for me in the _butler's pantry?_ " He quickly turned on his heel and strode past Daisy as she hurried out of his path. "Why did no one inform me before now? How long has His Lordship been waiting?"

"Well, Mr Carson, sir, you were in…" Daisy gestured helplessly towards the bathroom.

Carson straightened and nodded as he walked. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Daisy," he said.

She gave a quick nod and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Mrs Hughes was coming towards him.

"What's this about?" he asked quickly, lowering his voice.

Her face contracted. "I don't know. His Lordship mentioned not wanting to be disturbed. I'm off to find Mr Bates. He'll need to look to His Lordship's shoes. They're covered in dog droppings."

"Ah," Carson said with a grimace, noticing the faint, unpleasant aroma just then. "Have someone go fetch Mr Bates immediately. I'd like you to remain nearby."

"Certainly," Mrs Hughes said. "If you need anything, just look out."

Carson gave her a tight smile. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"Good luck," she whispered as he passed her, and he smiled. The smile dropped immediately from his face as he drew up to the door.

* * *

Robert glanced up when Carson appeared in the doorway. The butler stood stiffly a moment, glancing between Robert and the desk, and then Carson entered the room and closed the door behind him. He crossed to his desk and remained standing beside it.

"How may I be of assistance, Your Lordship?"

Robert waved him towards the chair behind his desk. "Sit, please, Carson. This might take some time. Are you free?"

"Of course, my lord." Carson frowned and sat, stiffly. He closed the ledger and set it aside, then rested his elbows on his desk and regarded Robert with a look of concern. "I take it that our conversation this morning was not, in fact, over?"

"No," Robert said. "But I did not think it appropriate to continue with Mr Crawley present."

Carson sat back and nodded. "Is this about terminating Thomas's employment, my lord?"

"Not exactly," Robert said. He paused and frowned, looking at the ledger that had been set aside.

Carson cleared his throat and asked in a quieter voice, "Is this about terminating my employment?"

Robert looked up at him sharply. "What? Of course not! Why would you even think that?"

Carson looked down briefly before meeting Robert's eyes again. "I overstepped; please forgive me."

Robert grimaced and glanced at the door. "No, this is my fault. I'm sorry to have worried you by coming down here instead of waiting upstairs," he said. "I've just been…distracted." He frowned again and sat forward. "The thing is, Carson, I believe that a serious oversight has occurred—perhaps intentional, perhaps not—and it must never happen again."

"My lord?" Carson's brows had drawn together in a fearsome expression.

"You know that your role, and that of the footmen, is not merely to serve in the daily concerns of the household."

Carson's face was dark. "Yes. If I may be so bold, my lord, what is this about?"

Robert frowned. "Do you recall my altercation with Mr Crawley before the family left for the Season?"

"I do. But Mr Crawley does not pose a threat, surely."

"No. No, he most definitely does not; quite the opposite, in fact. I was in the wrong that evening."

Carson's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

"You see, something…terrible…happened to Lady Mary in this very house, and because she was afraid, she hid it. She hid it from the entire household. From me. And from you. It was Mr Crawley who informed me of it and I responded…poorly…to the news."

Carson looked down at his desk. His hands were tightly clasped, his knuckles white.

Robert frowned. "You do not seem surprised," he said in an icy tone.

Carson finally met his eyes. "I had hoped it was not true," he said.

"You _knew?_ And you _neglected to tell me?_ " Robert sat forward in his chair, furious.

Carson swallowed hard. "I thought it merely a scurrilous rumour," he said quietly. "Lord Flintshire's valet wrote me. I tried to find the right moment to tell you, but—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses," Robert snarled, getting up and glaring down at his butler. His trusted, right-hand man. "How dare you!"

"—my lord," Carson said, rising slowly. "I told Her Ladyship and she instructed me not to say anything to you. She indicated that she would tell you herself."

Robert glared at Carson, his jaw working.

Carson swallowed and looked down. "Saying it...made it seem more real. I didn't want it to be true," he said in a near-whisper.

Robert gave a heavy sigh and looked away. He was not unaware of Carson's attachment to Mary and of hers to the butler. In some ways, Robert wished—but that was neither here nor there. He frowned at Carson's desk, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This oversight was his, as well. They had all failed her.

"Mr Pamuk," Robert lifted his eyes to Carson's, "assaulted her on the night of his death."

"No…" Carson's voice was a pale shadow of its usual strength. He sat, seemingly half-unaware of his actions. Several long seconds later, his eyes focussed on Robert again. His face was full of questions, but he did not speak.

Robert drew in a deep breath, the sick feeling settling in him. He sat down as well. "Mr Pamuk died in her bedroom, not in his own."

"He...assaulted...her?" Carson repeated. "Did she...?"

At the renewed look of questioning shock on Carson's face, Robert said quickly, "He died of a heart attack, as the coroner said."

Carson nodded slowly, composing himself with difficulty, and then his eyes narrowed. "But the bachelor's corridor is on the opposite side of the house!"

Robert nodded. "She had help: Anna…and Her Ladyship."

"Anna!" Carson said, his expression thunderous. "Why did I never hear of this from her?"

"She was following Lady Mary's and Her Ladyship's instructions, presumably," Robert replied, not wishing that Anna should bear any repercussions for her complicity. He regarded the maid's loyalty very highly, in fact.

Carson seemed to recognise this, for he gave a brief nod.

"So," Robert said. "Let me come to the point: Mr Pamuk was somehow able to find Lady Mary's room without rousing anyone else, which means that he knew which one is hers."

Carson stood up. Robert looked up at him in some surprise.

"I oversaw the management of Mr Pamuk and Mr Napier personally, my lord," Carson said. "Each time, I remained in the great hall and ensured that both Thomas and William properly escorted the gentlemen to their rooms, well after Lady Mary had gone upstairs. I gave precise instructions as to the timing of their coming down to dinner and their retiring. William and Thomas both returned at the expected times and gave satisfactory reports."

"Sit down, Carson, please," Robert said, holding a hand out. "I am not here to accuse you of neglecting your duties."

Carson frowned, then sat with obvious reluctance.

"I am also not here to accuse William or Thomas of neglecting theirs," Robert said. "My aim is not to terminate anyone's employment unless absolutely necessary. It is always my hope that all my employees will remain at their posts for as long as they wish and as long as we are able to provide for them."

"My lord," Carson said.

"I am here because _something_ went horribly awry during the visit with those two gentlemen, and we must discover what it was, because what happened _must never happen again_."

"Absolutely," Carson replied. "And if the error was on my part, I will tender my resignation without protest and leave immediately."

"Let's not go that far yet," Robert said. "I would hate to lose you."

"But you—your family— _Lady Mary_ —deserve someone in this post who can do their job _properly_." Carson shuddered. "To think what might have happened!" He held up a hand. "I do not wish to speak ill of the Turks, my lord, but inviting foreigners into the house always puts me a bit on edge."

Robert gave a mirthless smile. "That's understandable, of course. The fear of the unknown."

"And it was perhaps justified, in this case," Carson said darkly.

"Unfortunately, this particular scourge can be found amongst the English as well." Robert frowned.

"Only too true."

The two men sat a moment in frowning silence and then Carson looked up at Robert.

"How do you wish to proceed, my lord?"

Robert wanted to stand up and pace as he thought, but the confines of this room would not allow for that, so he forced himself to remain seated.

"You say that you oversaw the gentlemen being escorted to their rooms?" he asked. "And that there was a precise timetable for when each guest and each member of the family was expected to be ready for dinner?"

"That is correct."

"Do you have that timetable at hand?"

"I do," Carson, quickly pushing back in his seat and pulling open a drawer in his desk. He bent and flicked quickly through his papers until he made a sound of satisfaction and pulled out a small sheaf that was bound together with removable brass fasteners. He turned it around so that Robert could read its contents and he laid it on the desk between them. Robert picked it up.

"This is the standard procedure when the number of gentlemen are matched or exceeded by the number of male servants," Carson said. "I do not have a specific timetable of that particular night. To my knowledge, however, this plan was followed to the letter."

Robert scanned over the times, the delays built into the process, the interleaving of the events, and the coordination points between the servants. He admired the cleverness with which it was put together, the servants' tasks interlocking so seamlessly as to make each guest and the family feel as though they were not, in fact, being very carefully managed. He nearly chuckled to himself as he recognised certain patterns that his valet had always followed, and that Robert had never given particular thought to before. But there it was, laid out before him in precise and careful detail. It had clearly been designed by someone with a far more disciplined mind than himself. He flipped through a few pages and realised that the manual contained further instructions for what to do in the case of certain key events going awry, each under different conditions. There was no way that he could read through this and make sense of it well enough to find errors in the process, at least not without spending several weeks making sure he understood it first, and walking the halls with a stopwatch, most likely. This manual was clearly the result of generations of butlers and footmen pooling and refining their knowledge.

He laid the manual down on Carson's desk. "It's very detailed," he said.

Carson gave him a brief, wry smile. "As it must necessarily be," he replied, taking it back and frowning down at it. "I always note deviations each night in the log." He set the manual aside and reached to the side of the surface of his desk, drawing out a leather-bound tome from a short stack of similar books and laying it open in front of him. He flipped back through the pages until he found the one he was looking for and he drew his finger down the entries. He scanned it again and then made a short humming noise.

Robert sat forward. "Is there something?"

"There might be," Carson said. "Or there might not."

"What is it?"

"I do not wish to imply that the evidence is very strong," Carson said carefully.

"What is it, man?" Robert asked impatiently, sliding to the edge of his chair. If there was something—

"It's only that I noted that Mr Pamuk rang for a valet nearly an hour after I had thought him well settled in his room," Carson said, sitting back with a frown. "We were just finishing up the silver from dinner. Strangely, Thomas volunteered to go, now that I think of it."

"Why is that strange?" Robert asked. "I would think that admirable."

"Oh, it is," Carson said. "It is just not Thomas's usual approach. Normally, I must direct him to do it, and more than half the time, it is William who reports back that the task has been done."

Robert frowned.

"Oh, that's not of particular concern, my lord," Carson said. "It is common for the senior footmen to be called away by a member of the family or a guest and to delegate a task to the junior footmen. In fact, it is encouraged, to a limited extent. It helps to maintain the hierarchy and allows our more experienced staff to tend appropriately to the needs of those we serve."

"But more than half the time?" Robert asked. "Does that qualify as a 'limited extent'?"

"It is not worrying to me," Carson repeated. "Thomas is very skilled at his work."

"That he is," Robert acknowledged with a nod. "I just sometimes wonder whether his heart is in the right place."

They exchanged a meaningful glance and Carson sighed. "Yes, well, as long as the quality of his work remains excellent, I see no reason to call him to task."

"I quite agree," Robert said.

"But the fact that Thomas volunteered…" Carson murmured.

"It seems an admirable thing, especially if it was as late at night as you indicate."

Carson nodded.

"So what is the concern?" Robert asked.

Carson spoke carefully. "You asked me earlier today if I knew of some special connection between Thomas and Mr Pamuk."

Robert lifted his chin. "And you said no. Was that merely for Mr Crawley's benefit?"

"No," Carson replied. "I know of nothing between them. But there could very well have been an arrangement."

Robert nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Perhaps we ought to speak with Thomas. He likely has a satisfactory explanation for the whole affair, but nonetheless, hearing his view of that night would at least put my mind at rest."

They exchanged another glance. _Or it would confirm their suspicions._

Carson rose and stepped to the door, opening it. A moment later, Thomas appeared in the hallway outside. It was a surprisingly quick response, but then Robert supposed that news of his presence below stairs had spread throughout the house and the servants were on high alert, should he request anything. And of course they were curious about the odd business of his presence in the first place. Robert sighed. He should have followed the protocols expected of him; his place in the house was no less structured than theirs. Even if there was no formal discipline levied against him when he varied from his usual place, there were still consequences for his actions. Now, whatever happened with Thomas, it was practically public knowledge—the very opposite of what Robert had intended when he tried to meet privately with Carson. Now it was even more imperative that Thomas not be unjustly accused. A quiet dismissal was not possible at this point.

Robert had risen when Thomas entered the room. After closing the door behind the footman, Carson moved to stand beside his desk. Thomas's eyes had flickered nervously over Robert's face when he first saw him, but now his features were composed and his eyes were fixed on Carson.

"How might I be of service, my lord?" he asked, and looked at Robert.

Robert felt a strange chill when he met Thomas's eyes and he glanced quickly at Carson.

"I'll not bandy about," Carson said. "Do you recall the evening before Mr Pamuk's death?"

A flicker of something—was it fear?—shot through Thomas's eyes before his expression became a cool mask again.

"I do," he said.

"Did anything out of the ordinary occur?" Carson asked.

Thomas frowned and looked to the side, an expression of apparent concentration on his face, before he looked back at Carson. "I can't recall anything offhand," he said. "Can you be more specific, Mr Carson?"

"Certainly," Carson replied. "According to the logs, Mr Pamuk rang at 11:06PM and you attended him."

Thomas frowned, then nodded slowly. "I think…that's right. Yes, I did, sir."

"Such a request is somewhat unusual, is it not?"

"Yes," Thomas replied, his eyes flickering between Robert and Carson again. "But not entirely out of the ordinary. Sir."

"No," Carson said with a nod. "What _is_ unusual is that you volunteered to attend him, if I recall correctly."

Thomas frowned. "Was that wrong of me, sir?"

"Of course not," Robert said, with a glance at Carson, who lifted his chin. Robert subsided.

"Do you recall what the gentlemen had need of?" Carson asked.

Thomas frowned and glanced to the side. "I…believe that the lamp in his bedroom had gone out. He wished to continue reading. I installed a new bulb and took the old one away."

"Was this noted in the stores?" Carson asked.

Thomas's face became extremely composed and then he frowned and looked down at the floor. "No, Mr Carson, it was not."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a long moment and then Carson said, "And why was that?"

"I forgot," Thomas replied, self-recrimination and apology thick in his tone. "It was late, I was probably eager to sleep." Thomas straightened and looked between them. "I'm sorry for this lapse, sir. Your Lordship. I will not allow it to happen again."

Robert nodded, torn between wanting to believe the best of his footman and his own awareness that with this story, the evidence against Thomas was and would likely always remain merely circumstantial. The story was entirely believable. After all, Thomas had probably been awake for at least sixteen hours by that point. If Robert himself were dead on his feet, even he would have been reluctant to travel the length of the house to wherever the stores logbook was kept just to note the loss of a single light bulb. He would have told himself that he could do it the next morning…and then it would have been natural to forget his intention in all the bustle of a new day.

"And do you recall, at any point during that day," Carson asked, "whether Mr Pamuk might have been left unattended for a significant length of time? Particularly while the ladies were in the Family Wing?"

Thomas tilted his head to the side and frowned. "No, of course not. The gentlemen are not permitted to move freely about the house at any point while they are in residence." Thomas looked at Robert with a thoughtful frown. "And I do not recall that either Mr Pamuk or Mr Napier retired early that evening."

Robert nodded. "They did not."

"Although Mr Crawley left early, with Mrs Crawley," Thomas mused.

Carson gave an approving nod and shared a glance with Robert.

"Thank you, Thomas," Carson said. "That will be all."

Thomas glanced between them, giving them a tight smile and finishing with a slight bow in Robert's direction.

"Mr Carson. Your Lordship."

And he left the small office, pulling the door closed behind him.

Robert heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, I'm glad that business is done with."

"Except that we still don't know how Mr Pamuk found Mary's bedroom."

"Perhaps he was very lucky?" Robert ventured, but Carson did not look convinced. "Perhaps Mary looked out at an inopportune moment, or Mr Pamuk realised that Anna was attending Lady Mary and took note of _her_ activities."

"Perhaps," the butler agreed. "But in any of these scenarios, Mr Pamuk would need to deliberately enter a part of the house where he knew he was not welcome."

Robert scowled. "We now know his intentions were less than honourable. Someone with pernicious intent might, with enough attention to detail, be able to circumvent even the most careful security measures."

"With less than a day of observation?" Carson asked sharply.

Robert had no answer for this.

Carson's eyebrows were drawn so tightly together that Robert looked away again, uncomfortable.

"I have been remiss in my duties," Carson said.

"No," Robert said. "This was not your fault."

"Then whose fault was it?" the butler asked quietly.

Robert couldn't stop himself pacing now, although he only made it two steps before he turned round to face Carson again. Robert felt the sudden urge to cry and he sternly suppressed it. Where had that come from? What a useless thing emotions were, clouding your mind when you most needed it to be clear.

Robert turned abruptly away again, staring sightlessly at the wall.

"It was not yours, my lord," Carson said. "I had not meant to imply that at all."

"No, of course not, I know that," Robert said. "Still, at the end of the day, my family's welfare is my responsibility." _And I failed in the most dreadful way possible._

Robert closed his eyes. _Thank God for Matthew._ If not for him, none of this might ever have come to light, and the fact that he stood so fiercely by Mary in all of this filled Robert with a swell of gratitude and appreciation. He was not sure how many other men would have remained with a stained woman, particularly men from titled families: the very ones that he and Cora had been pushing Mary towards before Matthew arrived.

For the first time in his life, Robert was grateful for never having had a son. For if he had, Matthew would never have entered their lives, and where would that have left Mary? Robert didn't want to contemplate it. Banished to America, most likely. His precious, sparkling beauty of a daughter, thrown away by Society because of the actions of a—

"What is there left to pursue, my lord?" Carson asked, bringing Robert back to the present.

Robert turned slowly with a frown. "There is really nothing that I can think of," he said.

"I will review the management of the guests with a fine-toothed comb and ensure that the staff are all well-informed of the proper procedures," Carson said, but there was a measure of defeat in his voice.

"You must have faith in a process that has been refined for centuries, Carson," Robert said. "Even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

Carson nodded, but still look unconvinced.

Robert sighed heavily. "Speaking of the staff, there is one other thing I must discuss with you. I want you to address them, and quickly."

"My lord?"

"Mr Pamuk died under suspicious circumstances, and at a most inopportune time in the Albanian negotiations." Robert paced two steps again and stopped. "There is reason to believe that the Turks are dissatisfied with the explanation of Mr Pamuk's death, and that they have turned their attention to me."

Carson looked thunderstruck. "Surely not, my lord! You had nothing to do with the gentleman's death!"

"I did not. But they do not know that and they are making an attempt to find out more about the circumstances surrounding their diplomat's death."

Carson was frowning deeply. "I have heard nothing of this before now," he said.

"No; you would not have," Robert said. "I learned of it only this morning."

"From Mr Crawley?" Carson asked, his voice quiet.

"Yes. He heard of these rumours and made discreet enquiries while in London."

"I'm sorry to have ever thought ill of him, my lord," Carson said. "I was prepared to dislike him on Lady Mary's behalf."

Robert smiled, but only briefly. "We all were, I think, Carson."

"Why has this crisis arisen now, so long after the gentleman's death?" Carson asked.

"This is the most concerning aspect," Robert said. "Apparently, the Turks are in possession of some disturbingly accurate information. They know, for example, that he actually died in Lady Mary's room."

Carson pressed the back of his hand briefly to his mouth before dropping it back to his side. He met Robert's eyes, drawing in a deep breath before releasing it.

"And you think that a member of the staff might have communicated this to them somehow," Carson said, his voice deadly quiet.

Robert nodded.

"Even if Thomas were involved somehow, I doubt that he would have been the one to transmit this information," Carson mused.

"I agree," Robert said. "Doing so would implicate him."

Carson nodded, his expression dark and thoughtful.

"What do you wish me to say to the staff?" he asked.

"Everyone should be on the lookout for any odd persons, of course."

"Of course," Carson nodded.

"Do not mention Lady Mary's involvement, but you may make them aware of the potential threat to me. Make it clear that the threat is entirely theoretical at this point, but they must be made to understand the gravity of the situation."

Carson's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

"Please also impress upon them the importance of their role in the household. No task, no matter how small, is truly insignificant. My family is entirely dependent upon you all for our daily safety and protection, not to mention our daily needs." Robert paused. "And no detail should be overlooked. If anyone has information that might be relevant to this situation— _anyone_ —request that they come forward with it, and promise them immunity in return for sharing what they know."

Carson's brows drew together. "Immunity, my lord? That seems rather…generous."

Robert sighed heavily. "People will not feel safe enough to come forward otherwise, and getting to the bottom of this is more important than anything else. We cannot be throwing up a cloud of uncertainty with anonymous submissions."

"I agree."

"If someone implicates themselves by their own admission, we will take their gesture in good faith, although they will be put on notice and their behaviour must be without flaw until such time as we are satisfied with their performance again. I will give them the benefit of the doubt: there may have been extenuating circumstances involved."

Robert and Carson exchanged another meaningful glance, and then Carson gave a brief nod.

"Very good, my lord."

"Well," Robert said, straightening. "Thank you, Carson. This discussion was invaluable."

"I'm only sorry that it could not have been more fruitful, my lord."

"It may yet be," Robert said. "Ever vigilant, Carson. Ever vigilant."

"Always. To the utmost."

"Good man," Robert said, crossing to the door. "I will see you this evening."

They exchanged a nod and then Robert stepped out, glancing down at his stockinged feet with some chagrin. He looked up to see Bates standing in the hallway, holding out a pair of gleaming shoes. Robert grinned as Bates set them down, and then Robert quickly stepped into them, allowing Bates to tie their laces.

"Thank you, Bates."

"You're welcome, Your Lordship," the valet replied, pushing himself to his feet again. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"Not for a couple of hours, at least," Robert replied. "If Lady Grantham asks, I'll be in the library."

"Very good, my lord."

With a brief nod, Robert went quickly to the stairs and ascended them. He emerged into the great hall with a sigh of relief, feeling back in place again. It was almost as if he were leaving the whole dreadful business in another world, but of course he wasn't. He sighed and strode across the great hall towards the library, thinking about the letters he had to write.

* * *

Matthew entered Crawley House feeling stiff and sore but, paradoxically, also immensely relaxed and energised. His body was slick with sweat and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin, but he smiled to himself nonetheless.

"Did you and Mary have a good ride?" his mother asked with a grin, from the top of the stairs. He returned her grin as she descended.

"It was brilliant," he said with enthusiasm, pulling off his riding hat and running a hand through his hair. His scalp itched. Where was Molesley? Matthew was desperate for a good soak. "Although I'm still a bit sore from Thursday's ride. It's been too long."

She chuckled. "I was rather surprised when you told Mary that you rode."

He put on an expression of mock offence. "I'm perfectly _capable_ of it, Mother."

"Oh, certainly," she said. "But you made it sound as though you normally nipped off for a jaunt through the countryside on _week ends_." She emphasised the two separate words and Matthew laughed. "When was the last time you rode?" she asked, reaching the bottom step.

"Radley?" he said, frowning as he tried to recall. "I didn't have much time for leisurely pursuits at Oxford."

"No, you spent your time far more profitably." His mother grinned up at him, crossing in front of him and going into the sitting room. He followed her inside and watched her open a desk drawer and rummage through it.

"I rather lost my taste for it when Father passed away," Matthew said quietly. "It reminded me too much of him."

"Mmm." His mother glanced back at him. "That makes sense, I suppose." She brightened. "Well, I'm glad you've found a new riding partner in Mary."

Matthew grinned. "She has an excellent seat. One of the best I've seen."

His mother smiled and turned back to rummaging in the drawer. She closed it and opened another one, her movements quick and annoyed.

"What are you looking for?" Matthew asked, after a moment of watching her.

"My reading glasses," she said with a frustrated huff, and straightened. "Have you seen them?"

Matthew quickly glanced about the room and his eye caught on an unexpected glint of sunlight on the mantelpiece. He moved round the sofa and crossed to the fireplace. As expected, the glasses sat atop it, in front of his father's portrait. He paused, holding the glasses in one hand, and looked at the picture.

"Do you ever miss him?" he asked.

His mother drew up beside him, and he felt her take the glasses from his hand.

"Every day," she murmured, looking up at him. After a long moment, she looked away, gesturing with the glasses. "Thank you."

He turned away from the portrait and watched her perch the glasses on her nose before gathering her skirts and sitting down at the desk. She began her usual process of pulling out writing paper and a pen. Matthew looked back at the portrait again, studying the familiar face in silence.

"You have been a great comfort to me, my dear," she said. She smiled, but he could see the depth of emotion in her eyes. She blinked a few times and looked down at her blank sheets of paper. "You've no idea how often you remind me of him. It helps, sometimes."

Matthew swallowed and nodded.

"Just now, for instance," she continued unexpectedly, and he glanced at her with a frown.

"What do you mean?" He couldn't recall doing anything that reminded him of his father.

"The way you took off your hat and immediately ruffled your hair when you came inside," she said, her eyes faraway, a small smile on her face. "Your father was never much of one for pomade." She chuckled. "Neither was I, for that matter."

Matthew frowned and smiled as he remembered. No; his father had kept his hair quite short. Matthew had asked him about it once, for it had bordered on unfashionable, and his father had said that he had no use for hair falling in his eyes while he was trying to do a surgery or perform some other delicate operation. With the occasional suddenness of movement required for medical work, no amount of pomade was entirely sufficient for keeping one's hair in place. So his father had kept it neatly trimmed and generally only used pomade for social outings.

Matthew always used some, of course, but today's events—and particularly the ride—did not require such a formal appearance. And besides, his hair had been contained under his hat the whole time, so who would know? He thumped the hat against his leg. Molesley had dug his riding breeches and field boots out of a trunk in the attic just two days earlier, on very short notice. They'd smelled a bit musty when he'd first pulled them on, but they still fit, although just barely. Likewise, his skills on a horse had been rusty at first, but it had all come back to him before long and he'd found himself chasing after a laughing Mary in no time at all.

He smiled at the memory of her habit and the ribbons on her hat flapping vigorously behind her as she urged Diamond on. She made a glorious picture and presented a most enticing quarry. He grinned and chuckled to himself.

Then he sobered, remembering another ride, one that he hadn't been on, and another hunter whose true nature had been hidden even from her, and he frowned. Robert wasn't taking the situation seriously enough and Matthew felt powerless in the face of it. It was Robert's household and his servants, after all; being the heir meant nothing, really, when it came down to it. Giving them this house to live in, inviting Matthew to learn how the estate was run—it was all a mere courtesy, and Robert was a gracious host.

That was admirable, but grace was not the only attribute a head of household should display. He also needed a measure of shrewdness, to protect those in his charge. Robert hadn't known about Pamuk's assault on Mary and probably would have gone on indefinitely in that state if Matthew hadn't blundered into telling him. What else was Robert unaware of? Could the servants really be trusted?

Once again, Matthew was glad for the simpler life that he and his mother lived. Molesley was all right when it came to it, and Matthew was grateful for his help, even if he managed to be underfoot on occasion, but letting _that_ many people into the running of your household? It was an invitation for who-knew-what unpleasantness, surely. Trusting in the discretion of strangers, expecting that the mere act of paying someone would ensure that they kept your best interests at heart—it was ludicrous. Money ensured nothing. If anything, being continually exposed to such wealth but never permitted to enjoy it must breed jealousy and vindictiveness. Why couldn't Robert see that?

"If you must do that, Matthew, please do it somewhere else. You're driving me to distraction."

Matthew paused from where he stood behind the sofa and frowned across the room at his mother.

"Do what?"

"All that pacing," she replied, frowning down at her letter. "You know how it prevents me concentrating."

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He hadn't even been aware he'd been doing it.

His mother looked at him over her glasses, then twisted in her chair to face him.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He sighed and looked away, giving his leg a frustrated thump with the hat. His mother waited, although he knew her patience was limited. He frowned and walked back to the fireplace again.

"Robert doesn't seem interested in getting to the bottom of who started those awful rumours about Mary," Matthew said, moving to sit down on the sofa.

"Don't you dare," his mother said sharply, and he checked himself and shot her a look of chagrined annoyance. He stood by the fireplace again and reached over his shoulder to itch between his shoulder blades with a grimace. His vest prevented him getting a good purchase and he frowned. _Where was Molesley?_

When he realised that his mother hadn't said anything further, he gave her a look.

"Well? Don't you have some suggestion?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. "I can't pretend to know how to advise you in this," she said. "Have you spoken to Cousin Violet?"

"I have."

"And she said...?"

He scowled. "Much the same thing he did."

"It's how they are," his mother replied with a shrug, turning back to her letter.

"Yes, but they _shouldn't_ be!" Matthew said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "And it's Mary who's paid for their inattention!"

"Is she upset about this?" his mother asked, turning back to him.

Matthew scowled at the fireplace.

"I see," his mother said, after observing him a moment. "Well, I don't see that there's anything to be done about it."

Matthew gave her a sceptical look. "You always have ideas for meddling; why not now?"

She suppressed a smile. "I do, do I?"

He smirked at her. "Don't pretend you don't."

"You've done all you can, Matthew. How they choose to manage their household is not our concern."

He nodded, but frowned and looked away. "I just hate not being able to protect her."

His mother chuckled. "Well, that will change soon enough. And just to warn you: you'll never be able to protect her as much as you wish to. Even if Mary were a compliant sort—" at this, they shared an amused look, "—there is still so much that is beyond your control."

"I know," he sighed. "But I don't have to like it."

"Like it or not, it's life."

Matthew stared at his father's portrait and wondered what advice he would give in this instance.

_He would speak as a father._

Matthew frowned. What did that mean?

 _Encourage Mary to take more precautions when guests are about, if you must_. _But do not assume that you know all that they are about._

The words echoed with familiarity and Matthew's frown deepened. Perhaps Robert _was_ investigating the matter more thoroughly, but did not consider it Matthew's place to enquire further.

"Do you suppose Robert is hiding his true intentions from me?" he asked.

His mother looked up from her letter-writing again. "What do you mean?"

Matthew spoke slowly as he thought aloud. "Suppose I were in Robert's position," he said. "A man who has a demonstrated interest in my daughter—" his mind caught briefly on these words and then he continued, "—is making inquiries about the means by which I protect her."

"Ah," his mother said with a smile, and he looked down at her. "Yes."

Matthew looked at the floor with a sheepish expression and stubbed his boot against it. "Yes, I suppose..."

"He hasn't been the Earl of Grantham for this long without learning a thing or two," his mother said. "Not to mention a father of three daughters. He's probably in more of a state about this than you are."

Matthew looked up. "Do you really think so?"

His mother smiled and turned back to her writing. "Just wait until you have your own, my dear; then you'll understand."

Matthew chuckled, then frowned. Robert ought to know about the rides that he and Mary were going on, but the earl's comment about not knowing why Mary had come back early from London led Matthew to believe that Mary had not told her father about their outings. Matthew had watched her dismiss Lynch twice so far, and the look on Lynch's face was not a pleased one. It was clear that the man expected to accompany her when she rode, and Matthew's presence was not reason to change that expectation. If anything, it might be worrying Lynch further. If something happened to Mary while they were out, would it cost Lynch his job?

Matthew frowned uncomfortably. Never mind Lynch, was it even right for Matthew to be riding out alone with her at all? His intentions were pure— _were they, really?_ a little voice asked—he would never do anything untoward, surely—but the whole reason he'd invited her out after Sybil's ball was to enjoy more time alone with her, to escape her family's constant surveillance.

Matthew looked up at Molesley's sudden appearance in the doorway.

"Sir, I'm sorry, sir, I hadn't realised you'd come in!" Molesley said, straightening his jacket and brushing off the sleeve. The valet touched his hair, then quickly dropped his hand. "I was in the back garden, trimming the hedges. Beth called me in just now."

Matthew put up a hand. "That's quite all right, Molesley. I'm sure the hedges look much better for it."

Molesley smiled, taking in Matthew's appearance, and gave a curt nod. "I expect you'll be wanting to wash, sir?"

Matthew glanced down at himself with a chuckle. "Absolutely."

"If you'll just come upstairs, I'll have a bath ready for you in a jiffy."

Matthew nodded and started round the sofa as Molesley headed towards the stairs.

"Supper will be served at six-thirty," his mother called, not looking up from her writing.

"I'll be down before then," Matthew said.

"Good," his mother answered. "I didn't want to see you squirrelled away in your study the whole evening."

"I've work to do, Mother," he said.

"I know," she smiled across at him. "But it's Saturday: surely you can take some time off."

He shook his head with a smile. "I took the morning off already, you know that. And you'll have me all to yourself tomorrow. It is the Lord's Day, after all."

"Whatever do you mean by that?" she asked, turning to face him as he strode out. "I don't need you all to myself."

"I thought we might take a walk together," he said, grinning. "While we still can."

"That would be lovely," she said with an answering grin. "But don't assume we won't do it on occasion after you're married, too."

He chuckled and shook his head as he headed up the stairs, and then he sobered. In all seriousness, he didn't know what would happen. He and Mary hadn't been able to agree on where they might live after they married, but it seemed definite that it wouldn't be at Crawley House. His opportunities to spend time with his mother would likely be curtailed.

He smiled. Of course, that would be because he had opportunities to spend time with his wife, instead. _Wife_. He liked the sound of that.

He heard the bath being drawn and grinned. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to peel off his sweaty clothing and have a good soak.

* * *

Thomas sat on the picnic bench in the kitchen courtyard and slowly exhaled smoke through his nostrils. He watched it curl away and then bent to tap the fag on the edge of the bench before propping his arm up again.

"Fancy a smoke?" he said, when he saw O'Brien emerge from the doorway and walk out a few steps beyond him. She turned to him with a small smirk.

"Don't mind if I do," she said. He inclined his head towards the open packet resting beside him and she took a cigarette out. He let her light it from his own and then he watched her take a drag. She blew it out. "Well, that's a witch hunt where naught'll be drowned."

"They all did look like a pack of wet rats, though, didn't they?" he smirked.

She chuckled. "Aye, they did at that."

They smoked in silence for a short while.

"'Rats' is right," O'Brien said with a sneer. "Daisy wasted no time in spilling her guts to Mrs Hughes. The old battle-axe had me on for not telling her about it right when it happened."

"When what happened?" Thomas asked with a frown. O'Brien eyed him a moment, a small smile growing on her face.

"Mr Pamuk died in Lady Mary's room." O'Brien seemed to find his expression even more amusing, for she smiled outright and turned away with a shake of her head. She gestured with her fag. "The little whore did him in." She gave a nod. "How's about that?"

Thomas stared at O'Brien, trying to make sense of her words. "Are you saying Lady Mary _murdered_ Kemal Pamuk?"

"Shhh! The walls have ears! And no, I'm not saying nothing of the kind. It was a heart attack, they said. So unless she's the real witch around here, no, she didn't murder him."

"But you just said—"

O'Brien cut him off with a significant look and his mouth dropped open slightly. He closed it.

"No," he managed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Is that even possible?" he said.

"Must be. It happened."

"How do you even _know_ this?" he asked, not able to stop himself from drawing slightly away from her.

She smirked at his movement and looked up. "Daisy." She took a draw on her fag.

"That little mouse?" He smirked. "She's not seen the inside of a man's bedroom except to clean it."

"Rat. And Daisy didn't tell me from her own experience, you idiot. She saw Lady Mary carrying his body round a corner."

"But how did she get him back to his bedroom? It's clear across the house."

O'Brien shrugged. "How should I know? All I know is Daisy saw it and the next thing we know, you found him cold as a stone in his bed."

Thomas suppressed a shiver and looked away. The man's dead-eyed stare was not one he wanted to recall. Mr Pamuk had seemed so strong and alive only hours earlier.

For half an instant, life felt fragile, and then Thomas pushed the thought away.

"And never you mind about the letter you wrote to Old Savident's valet; the rumours flying around London right now have far surpassed anything you might have been able to say."

"What's this?"

O'Brien smirked and tapped her fag before answering. "Everyone knows he died in her bedroom. And I think I know who told them."

"Really? Who?"

"Lady Edith."

Thomas frowned. "How do you know that?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "I'm not a lady's maid for nothing, you know."

He shrugged and looked away, portraying an attitude of disinterest, but he was discomfited. What had happened between Lady Mary and Mr Pamuk that could possibly have led to the man's death? O'Brien's intimation seemed ludicrous; surely a shag couldn't be fatal—unless Mr Pamuk had hurt Lady Mary and she'd later poisoned him?

But no, the young diplomat hadn't seemed a violent sort. He was well-educated, affluent, accustomed to the finer things, with a knack for putting a new valet at ease. He'd been enticing and charismatic, with swarthy, smooth skin and a well-muscled body that was set off to full advantage by his formal evening wear. As Thomas had dressed him for dinner, Kemal Pamuk had watched every movement with such dark, beckoning eyes, and his lips had been so full and inviting...

Thomas swallowed. He'd been such a fool. The moment he had succumbed to that magnetic gaze, Mr Pamuk had known it. Gone was the unspoken invitation, leaving only a sprung trap in its wake, and Thomas was exposed and powerless. Revulsion curled in him at the memory. He'd spent all of dinner in agony as he served the family and their guests, burning with shame and desire even as Mr Pamuk flirted brazenly with Lady Mary.

After Thomas had led Mr Pamuk to her room late in the evening, he hadn't been able to stop himself eavesdropping briefly, and he'd heard Lady Mary's protests and Mr Pamuk's response. Once he'd realised they were well on their way and Lady Mary hadn't screamed, however, he'd left. Mr Pamuk hadn't forced her. If he'd tried, Thomas would have stepped in. It would have earned him favour with the family and any accusations Mr Pamuk might have tried to make at that point would have been easily dismissed, for he would have been found in her room. Lord Grantham would have thrown the Turk out of the house without ceremony and without listening to a word he said.

But there was still a niggling, unsettled feeling around the edges of this. Lady Mary might be a spoiled brat, but she had also seemed unaware of what her actions could provoke. If it hadn't been for Thomas's foolish attempt to seduce Mr Pamuk, she might never have been put in such a situation. He frowned. Had her...activities...with Mr Pamuk truly brought on the man's heart attack? What a horror of a thought.

Thomas smirked. He didn't envy Matthew Crawley _that_ prospect. He wondered if the prig had any idea what was in store for him.

"...and I've had inquiries from half a dozen ladies' maids," O'Brien was saying, her expression as close as it ever got to happy. "I haven't written back to any of them yet, of course. It's best to hold on to what you have until you can make good use of it."

Thomas glanced at her with a smirk, then reached down to tap off more ash on the edge of the bench. She hadn't told him about what she knew until just now: what use was she getting from this conversation? An opportunity to show off, most likely, and to vent her frustrations to a friendly ear. But O'Brien was not his friend; they were temporary allies at best, as long as they could make use of each other. He could trust no one. She would make a mistake, some day, and she would see then if he was willing to listen to her bragging and carrying on. They were neither of them under any illusions.

"Miss O'Brien?" Mrs Hughes stepped out into the yard, a stern look on her face—when was it otherwise?—and caught sight of O'Brien. "There you are. Lady Grantham's rung for you."

"Of course she has," O'Brien muttered, dropping her fag to the cobblestones and crushing it underfoot.

"She'll not wait all day," Mrs Hughes snapped.

"I'm coming," O'Brien said, stalking towards the housekeeper. "You don't have to ask twice."

"Good," Mrs Hughes answered, glancing at Thomas before following O'Brien inside. The door closed behind the two women.

Thomas dragged on his cigarette, then looked at it. It was nearly burned down. He would need to go back in soon as well. He blew out the lungful of smoke and watched it curl away on the slight breeze. Not that there was much occasion for wind to move this far into the courtyard. The high walls kept everything stagnant and still.

He smirked at his turn of thought and took another draw on the fag. Lord Grantham's little kingdom, trying to hold the world at bay.

Then Thomas frowned and leaned forward, bracing himself on the edge of the bench and letting the fag hang from slack fingers. What Mr Carson had said seemed ridiculous. It was utterly unlikely that the Turks would attempt to assassinate Lord Grantham, wasn't it? But their diplomat had died under suspicious circumstances, and in this house. Who knew what the Turks would do? They had a brutal reputation, didn't they? And why would they act now? Did they have some fresh reason to believe that Lord Grantham had been involved in Mr Pamuk's death? Had some new evidence surfaced? But what could it be? Had O'Brien been right, and it was Lady Edith's doing?

A stillness came over him for a moment. Now that he thought about it, he'd seen a letter addressed in Lady Edith's hand and intended for the Turkish Embassy when he'd taken out the post a few days after Pamuk's death. It was unusual, but at the time he'd assumed that it was merely a polite gesture of commiseration. Now he was not so sure. How could the Turks pose a material threat to Lord Grantham unless they had evidence of foul play? But then, why would Lady Edith expose the family in such an unbelievable fashion? It made no sense.

Of course, she might not have been intending to expose the family, but merely her older sister, and the whole plan was going off the rails. Thomas smiled sourly to himself. These women were children, playing with things they didn't understand.

His humour quickly fell away, however, as he contemplated the repercussions of her foolish action, and his own. He was not just an insignificant cog in a heartless machine. His actions, although they had seemed limited to a private matter between himself and Mr Pamuk, had led to his being used by the Turk to bring harm down on the family Thomas served.

He did not like this new insight into the essential vulnerability of the Crawley family. They might possess titles and vast wealth, but neither was of any use in this situation. Those things had, in fact, likely opened them up to such a threat. Due to their position and influence, the threat was at the level of an entire foreign country rather than merely a disgruntled neighbour or a spurned lover, and therefore all the more frightening. He had not considered the downsides of their elevated position before.

Although Thomas had no particular love for Lady Mary, Lord Grantham was a fair and relatively kind master, in that sense somewhat unusual amongst the men of his class. Thomas knew he was fortunate in his position serving the Crawley family, although he would never admit it aloud. Lord Grantham could not have murdered Mr Pamuk and Thomas would be saddened to see him pay for a crime that he did not commit, not to mention the upheaval that would result and the likely uncertainty about the future of Thomas's position at Downton if Lord Grantham were to die or be imprisoned.

Thomas swallowed, Carson's words about the family's security depending wholly upon their servants ringing in his ears. He did not wish to see the Crawleys as human; he much preferred to resent them from afar, even as he was jealous of their power and position and wished that he could walk among them as an equal. But human they were, and human they would remain. And Thomas's job was an important one; they relied on him. On all of their servants. If anything serious ever came of this threat, the menservants might be their only source of protection.

Thomas balked at the thought. Although he knew part of his role was to provide physical protection for the family and to guard against intruders and thieves and the like, it was a duty that he'd never been called upon to perform, had never expected would really be necessary, and for which he had precious little training. He'd listed 'pugilism' as a hobby on his application, but that was laughable; if anything, his experience with it had been wholly on the receiving end.

He sneered and put out his fag.

After a moment of staring at the overcast sky, he gathered up the unfinished packet of cigarettes and went back inside, his thoughts still churning.


	8. Chapter 8

_8_

Robert stood on the hillside, his hands in his jacket pockets, as Pharaoh romped nearby, dashing this way and that along the edge of the lake. He wasn't watching the dog, however: his gaze was fixed across the inlet, at the two figures on horseback. He admired the woman's expert seat and smiled. Matthew's seat wasn't anything to sneer at, but it was clear Mary was the superior rider. Robert frowned. All those riding lessons had been put to good effect, but of what use were her skills in this day and age? Especially now…

Robert sighed, then laughed to himself as he watched Mary evade Matthew's pursuit again. She looked so happy. So did Matthew, for that matter.

Robert was torn; delighted on the one hand, heavy-hearted on the other. Nothing might come of this, he reminded himself. Or everything might change. The one thing he'd thought he so desperately wanted he now felt ambivalent about—and then he felt guilty at the thought of not welcoming a new son or daughter with open arms. Of course he would be a proud Papa, but to start all over again? Now? He'd thought those days long past, his quiver already full. He loved his daughters so very much. He was proud of the women they had all become. Even his baby, Sybil, was a grown woman now, out in Society. Her first Season had been a great success. She was such a beautiful young woman, so full of life and spirit. She was always pushing at the boundaries, certainly, but what young person wasn't? It was the job of the next generation to pull against the traces of their parents. The pattern was as old as the world itself. Soon she would be a wife, a mother…

Robert swallowed and watched the figures on horseback. They'd slowed and, he realised, turned to face him. Matthew waved; Robert put on a wide smile and briefly pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave back. He watched them confer and then they began trotting their horses back round the inlet, heading in his direction. He had to tell them. His stomach twisted with dread and he hated that this feeling was associated with such happy news, but it wouldn't necessarily be happy to them. Robert's heart gave a painful squeeze. He liked Matthew so much. The boy had made the transition into his new life with surprising grace and Robert couldn't imagine a better husband for his daughter. Mary was high-spirited, with a quick mind. Most men would probably be intimidated by her—most had been, Robert considered wryly—and the rest wouldn't appreciate her properly. She was an extraordinary woman: if she'd been born a male, Downton would have been in excellent hands. As a woman, though, and particularly a noblewoman, her talents had no real outlet. Robert could see his daughter's frustration but had been powerless to redress it. Matthew had been the answer to more than one of the family's unfortunate circumstances, not the least of which was what to do with Mary. Her engagement to Matthew was more than just a relief for the family, however. Cora was right: Robert could see they got on well. They had as good a chance of a happy life together as anyone. Matthew would value Mary and care for her, and they would likely make splendid parents. A father could not hope for more.

But Robert frowned as they neared. Despite their fondness for each other, how would they weather the situation if everything changed? Robert did not think Mary so shallow that she would reject Matthew if his prospects were now different, but the arrangement would be out of the ordinary. Robert knew Matthew would be able to provide her with a comfortable life, but it would be a vastly different one from what she was accustomed to, and it might always be. That kind of disparity could breed discontent, even with the best of intentions from both parties.

Pharaoh barked a greeting and ran in excited circles round the horses as they approached. Robert put on a smile as the two riders pulled up.

"Hello, Papa," Mary said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. The sight of her happiness stabbed at him, but he kept smiling. "What brings you out to the lake on this lovely morning?"

"I was looking for you. Why did you dismiss Lynch?"

"We don't require a chaperone."

"Of course you do," he replied, dropping his smile and glancing at Matthew. "Lynch tells me you two have been making a frequent habit of disappearing off together." Matthew looked suitably contrite. Mary, however, merely pulled off her riding gloves and looked bored.

"Really, Papa? You've come all the way out here to slap our wrists for an entirely innocent excursion? You were complaining only last week that Lynch wasn't taking Goliath out for exercise frequently enough because he favours Salford." Mary ignored the hand that Robert held out to her as she dismounted. She landed smoothly and straightened her habit, taking Diamond's reins. Diamond snuffled and nudged Mary's shoulder and she smiled up at him and gave him a fond pat. Matthew had dismounted from Goliath and he stepped round the horse, gathering the reins as he joined Mary and Robert. The three set off in the direction of the stables as Pharaoh ran off to nose around in a nearby shrubbery.

Robert glanced at the horses. It was plain to see they had been thoroughly put through their paces, bearing up what Mary had said. Despite having no tangible evidence of anything untoward and despite his fondness for Matthew, Robert was no fool. He looked past Mary and caught Matthew's eye. The two men exchanged a look and then Matthew nodded.

Mary cleared her throat primly. "When you two have done with that, you might want to consider involving me in the decision. I quite like having a partner to ride with who can keep up with me."

"Lynch has a fine seat," Robert said.

"Lynch has work to do," Mary retorted.

"So does Matthew." Robert smiled.

Matthew laughed. Mary shot him a look, but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "He's right."

"Won't your employers notice your absence?" Robert asked.

"I've made arrangements to shift my schedule back a few hours a couple more times a week," Matthew replied. "Also, I bring work home and finish it in the evenings."

"Ah…which is why you've been round for dinner less than Cora and I were expecting, given—" Robert tilted his head in their direction.

Matthew nodded. "I hope I haven't given offence."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary said.

"Of course not," Robert put in at nearly the same time. "We just thought you'd want to spend more time with Mary than you had before." He smiled. "Which you have been, it would seem."

"I'm sorry," Matthew said. "I should have asked your permission."

"Did you hear what I just said about not being ridiculous?" Mary snapped. "I am an adult. I don't require Papa's permission to go out riding, and neither do you."

The two men exchanged another glance. He would take this up with her later, when Matthew was not present. Robert believed he and Matthew understood each other well enough for now.

"I came to find you because I have…news," Robert continued, trying to sound cheerful.

"Oh dear," Mary said.

Matthew frowned at her. "What's wrong?"

She looked askance at Robert. "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

He sighed and watched Pharaoh loping around happily several yards in front of them. "It's a mixed thing," he replied, deciding to just say it. "Your mother is expecting."

A two-part chorus of "What?" met his ears.

Mary and Matthew came to a stop and Robert paused as well. Pharaoh trotted up and snuffed against his hand; Robert petted his head and avoided their eyes a moment.

"Mama's…what?" Mary repeated. "How—?" she cut herself off. "Don't answer that."

Robert shook his head and looked off into the distance past the horses. "It took us quite by surprise," he murmured.

"When is the baby to arrive?" Matthew asked, his voice quiet.

Robert's eyes shot to him, shocked at the baldness of the question, but Matthew's expression was unreadable. Was there anger in his eyes? Robert wasn't sure and he looked away, uncomfortable. Matthew had every right to ask, given the potential implications of this situation for him. Robert had no intention, no matter the outcome, of ousting him and Isobel from Crawley House, but they might wish to leave if Matthew's position were to change. There would be no need for them to remain at Downton. They'd had a life and friends in Manchester, and Matthew might want to begin making arrangements in the event of their return. Robert felt a pang in his chest at the thought.

Mary started walking, tugging Diamond's reins, and the two men quickly fell back into step on either side of her.

"Dr Clarkson expects it will be some time in December," Robert answered.

"Congratulations," Matthew said.

Mary continued to tug Diamond, walking slightly ahead of them.

"Thank you," Robert answered.

"Mary," Matthew said.

"Yes, Matthew?" The sweetness in her tone sounded false.

"You're being rude."

Mary huffed. "Felicitations, Papa."

"It's all right," Robert said to Matthew, when he saw the younger man's annoyed expression. "It's quite a lot to take in."

Mary stopped, drawing Diamond up beside her. "'Quite a lot to take in'?"

"They couldn't have _chosen_ this, Mary," Matthew protested, stopping and putting out a hand. She ignored him.

"I suppose you're ecstatic, then, to have another chance at an heir?" she asked Robert, her words even more bald than Matthew's had been.

Robert frowned down at her. "It's complicated," he answered.

"It's not complicated," she snapped back. "You uprooted Matthew and now you're threatening to toss him out like so much rubbish."

"Mary," Matthew put in quickly, "you don't need to defend me—"

"Why not?" she turned on him. "You're not defending yourself."

"There's nothing to defend against," he answered, still holding out a hand but not touching her. He was frowning. "They haven't done anything wrong."

"They could have at least waited until Mama passed her childbearing years," Mary said. "They could have made sure you weren't just going to be jerked about before dragging you into all of this."

Robert held out his hands. "It's been eighteen _years_ , Mary. That's exactly what we thought we were doing."

Mary looked away from him, angry but schooling her expression into one of cool distance.

"Dr Clarkson said that sometimes, at the end, a woman—" Robert cut himself off and squinted into the distance. The three of them stood in awkward silence for a long moment, and then:

"I _told_ you that really smart people sleep in separate rooms," Mary muttered, starting forward again. Robert laughed; Matthew looked shocked. When she noticed Matthew hadn't joined her, she paused and turned round. She rolled her eyes at his expression. "Don't look so disappointed."

"But I _am_ —"

Mary huffed. " _Seriously_ , Matthew. I was teasing."

Matthew seemed to be trying to read her expression, with no success. For someone who was teasing, she certainly didn't appear to be smiling. Robert laughed again at the half-panicked look on Matthew's face and shook his head. This was for Mary to sort out.

"Will you be joining us for lunch?" he asked, as they started forward again.

Matthew shook his head. "No. I need to wash up. I want to take the noon to Ripon."

They walked in silence for a short while. When the stables came into view, Robert said, "I can take Goliath in, if you wish."

Matthew nodded and held Goliath still as Mary continued on ahead. Robert stepped up and took the reins from Matthew, then pulled Goliath forward, walking slowly.

"I want to say I'll make provision for you if it's a boy and you get pushed out," Robert said as Matthew fell into step beside him.

"Don't worry," Matthew replied. "I know you can't. If any man living understands the strength of the entail, it's me."

"I can give you Crawley House for life, if it's a help."

Matthew nodded and looked at Mary ahead of them.

"By the way, I want to ask a favour," Robert said. "What's the name of your cook? The one you brought with you from Manchester?"

Matthew frowned. "Mrs Bird?"

Robert nodded. "Mrs Patmore will be taking some time away and we need someone who can step in for a few weeks. Do you think Mrs Bird might be willing? I'll compensate her, of course."

"I can certainly ask her."

"Thank you."

They continued walking and then Robert cleared his throat and drew Goliath up. Matthew stopped beside him with a questioning frown.

"I expect to be informed of future outings," Robert said.

"Of course," Matthew replied, lifting his chin, his face clearing. "Please forgive me."

Robert tugged at Goliath and they started walking again. "It's not necessary."

"I hope you know I would never do anything with her that I would be unwilling to do in your presence," Matthew said. "We really do just ride."

"I trust you both, you know that, but there's no harm in fleeing temptation. You'll be married soon enough; there's no need to rush things."

Matthew frowned, watching Mary as she led Diamond into the stables. "Yes. You're right; I'm sorry, sir."

"Enough of that," Robert replied. "Go. Go." He waved his hand in a shooing motion and Matthew nodded and began to jog away.

"You have a good seat!" Robert called after him.

Matthew twisted and smiled back at him, still at a jog. "Thank you!"

Robert looked between the young man's receding form and the darkness of the stable doors where Mary had disappeared a few moments before. He glanced up at Goliath and gave the horse's neck a soft pat. "They grow up so quickly, old chap," he said, then sighed. He and Cora were starting over again. A child of either sex would be welcome, of course, but the prospect of a son! Robert didn't know what he wished for more: a proper heir, or a situation largely unchanged. Matthew he knew and had confidence in. This child was an unknown entity and the future of Downton was at stake. Ah well, Robert mused, tugging Goliath beside him as he stepped into the warm, earthy shade of the stable and handed the reins to the young groom who just then rushed up. If it were a son, Robert would train the boy as his own father had trained him, and that would be that. Either way, the Grantham Estate would continue and Robert would do his best to ensure its solid future. Pharaoh nudged Robert's leg with his nose and Robert smiled down at the dog and patted his head.

"Come, boy, let's go wash up before lunch," he said, and the hound trotted after him as Robert made his way back to the house.

* * *

Cora sat at her vanity in her evening gown, and she picked up a glove from her lap as she glanced at her husband. He stood beside a chair a few feet away from her, also dressed in his formal evening wear for dinner, one hand resting on the chair-back, the other arm akimbo, and he was really quite...appealing. She smiled, looking forward to when they could retire. Perhaps it was something to do with carrying his child; she felt quite invigorated and eager. She always cherished the warmth in his eyes in the evenings, when he saw what she was about, and she expected tonight would be no different.

But he wasn't in any such mood at the moment.

"Something's not right about it," Robert said, frowning.

"I agree," Cora replied, pulling her long glove on and wiggling her fingers as she straightened the fitted silk. "Having a silver thief in the house does not seem right at all." Her voice dipped. "Even if he _could_ walk."

Her eyes shot to her husband's, but he let her dig at Bates slide, merely looking away.

"But Carson isn't keen to get rid of him, either," Robert continued, "and he normally comes down on this sort of thing like a tonne of bricks."

Cora raised her eyebrows as she worked the glove up over her elbow. "What's his reasoning?"

Robert pushed off from the chair and walked towards the window as he spoke. "He blames Thomas and O'Brien." He looked out over the grounds, straightening his cuff. "He says they've been working against Bates since he got here."

"So I should sack O'Brien instead?" Cora asked with a smirk.

Robert tugged his other cuff. "You'll hear no argument from me."

"This should do the trick, my lady."

Cora startled and turned in her chair. O'Brien stood just inside the bedroom door, holding a feathered headdress that matched Cora's gown.

Robert glanced back, uncomfortable, and Cora turned towards him with a heavy sigh. She pursed her lips and shot him a glare before she looked away, her eyes wide with anger and embarrassment.

* * *

Sarah O'Brien paced back and forth in the tight space under the archway at the edge of the kitchen courtyard, her whole body tense and her movements jerky.

"Ten years of my life, that's what I've given her. Ten _bloody_ years!"

Thomas blew out a long stream of smoke. "But did she say she'd sack you?"

"It's obviously what he wants."

"So when will they tell you?" Thomas took another draw from his fag.

She gave a tense shrug. "When they've found a replacement," she sneered, biting off her words. "Heaven forfend she should have to put a comb through her _own_ _hair_."

Thomas exhaled smoke, looking away with a frown.

"If I'm going," Sarah continued, "you won't be far behind."

Thomas gave her a sharp glance before calmly looking away.

"Oh, so what?" he answered derisively. "Sod 'em." He met her gaze. "There's a war coming and war means change. We should be making plans."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, put it like this: I don't want to be a footman any more, but I don't intend to be killed in battle, neither." He took a final draw on his fag and flicked it to the ground, giving her a knowing glance as he walked away.

Sarah turned with a frown as she watched him leave. A lot of help he was. What was she going to do? Lady Grantham wasn't going to just _sack_ her after a decade of faithful service, not if Sarah had anything to say about it. She'd thought Her Ladyship was a better mistress than most, but now Sarah just felt a fool for having let such a sentimental thought creep in. Cora, Countess of Grantham, was going to _pay_ for such treatment!

Sarah lifted her chin and walked across the courtyard, considering how she might be able to exact her revenge as she went back into the servants' hall.

* * *

"Mr Crawley!" Carson said, crossing the great hall later that evening. "Is Lord Grantham expecting you?"

Matthew removed his hat. "Good evening, Carson. No. I was actually hoping to speak with Lady Mary."

"Lady Mary?"

"Yes: she left a note for me. I'm sorry to drop in on you at such an hour. I had to work late; I only just got in."

"Say no more, sir." Carson gestured towards the sitting room. "You haven't caused offence. The family is just this way."

Matthew followed him across the great hall. Carson pushed open the door to the sitting room.

"Mr Crawley, Your Lordship," he announced. Robert, who was standing beside the fireplace, twisted in surprise.

Cora's face lit up. "Matthew! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here so late?" Her face suddenly creased. "Your mother is well, I hope?"

"Oh yes, she's fine," Matthew said quickly, relieved that Cora seemed in good health as well. His eyes found Mary's, surprised that she hadn't told anyone to expect his arrival. Why had she summoned him? She did not seem upset, but she wasn't smiling, either. "I was hoping I might speak with Mary, actually."

All eyes turned to her as she rose with perfect composure. She glanced at her father. "Papa?"

Robert frowned between them. "Carson, please show Lady Mary and Mr Crawley to the small library."

"Of course, my lord." Carson led the way and Matthew waited for Mary to precede him out of the room before giving the rest of the family a tight smile in response to their puzzled, concerned looks. He hurried to catch up with her.

"You haven't had your dinner yet, have you?" she asked as they crossed the great hall. William appeared and Carson motioned him over.

"No. I just got in and came straight here," Matthew said.

Mary turned. "Carson, would you ask Mrs Patmore to send something up?"

"Right away, my lady." Carson nodded to William, who promptly strode off.

"Oh, that won't be necessary—" Matthew started.

"Nonsense," Mary said. "You must be hungry. It's well past dinner-time."

Matthew sighed as she and Carson paused to confer. He had a great deal of work to do before bed this evening and Mrs Bird already had a plate warming in the oven for him. He'd hoped that whatever this was about could be handled quickly.

"The dining room, then, and please inform Lord Grantham of the change in plans."

"Of course, my lady," the butler answered, and led the way towards the dining room. They crossed the short distance together and Carson held the door open for them to enter.

"Thank you, Carson," Mary smiled at him and he inclined his head and left.

Matthew took a few steps into the room and turned. "You really don't have to, you know."

"I know," Mary smiled. "But I can hardly be blamed for wanting the excuse to keep you nearby a little longer."

Matthew chuckled, then grew serious. "What's this about? Your note seemed urgent."

She frowned. "It did? I specifically told you to come at your convenience. I hardly expected nine o'clock in the evening to be convenient for you."

"You said you wanted to speak with me and after today's news, your note was compelling. You've never left me a note before."

"Oh, Matthew," she said. "I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to make you nervous."

"I'm not nervous," he answered immediately.

She smiled. "You're not relaxed, either."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, then gave her a small smile. "What's this about, Mary? I've had a long day."

"Work was tiring?" She took in his appearance, and he looked down at his shoes and winced. He'd forgotten about them. Carson had likely noticed the state they were in and it was to the butler's credit that he hadn't drawn Matthew's attention to them. There was probably a trail on the carpet; it would mean extra work for one of the maids tomorrow.

"I'm sorry about the mud. I was caught out in the downpour this afternoon and nearly turned my ankle in a farmyard." He pulled at a leg of his trousers and sighed. Mud was spattered on the bottoms as well. "I should have changed before I came." He frowned. "No wonder Molesley called after me."

Mary had reached him by this point and she put her palms on his chest and angled her head to press her lips to his. He froze, then straightened slowly and raised his hands to hold her waist, returning the kiss, his weariness forgotten. She pulled away before he wanted the kiss to end, and he kept his eyes closed and rested his forehead against hers a moment, then drew back.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"That was what I wanted to say," Mary answered, her eyes alight. He smiled and moved to kiss her again, but she pressed on his chest to stop him. "William will be back soon," she said. He nodded and swallowed.

"So that was it?" he asked, his smile returning. "You missed me?"

"Well," she drawled, stepping away from him. "We didn't get to finish our ride."

He laughed. "Oh, we finished the _ride_."

She smiled, then sobered. "And I wanted to make sure you know that nothing has changed for me."

He stepped up to her and touched her face. "I didn't think it had."

"But I didn't want you to worry."

"Thank you for that," he said, smirking. "I'm not too proud to admit to being a bit distracted by it this afternoon."

"Was that why you nearly turned your ankle?"

"It might have been," he conceded. He so wanted to kiss her again, but at that moment William knocked and appeared carrying a tray and a decanter, so Matthew contented himself with admiring Mary's graceful form as she moved round the table and took a seat. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, careful not to brush her or the legs of the furniture with his muddy clothing. They nodded their thanks to William as he set down two wine glasses. Matthew smiled to himself at the sight.

"Will that be all, my lady?" the footman asked.

"Yes, thank you, William," Mary replied. "Please tell Lord Grantham we'll only be a short while."

"Very good, my lady." William inclined his head and then left the room.

Matthew poured them both a glass of wine, smiling as he did so. "I see I will not be given the opportunity to offend your sensibilities again."

Mary smirked. "Oh, it's not _my_ sensibilities that were offended. Carson specifically asked if we wanted _two_ wine glasses."

Matthew laughed and lifted the cover off the tray to reveal a steaming bowl of soup and a small basket of rolls. He smiled a silent thanks to Mrs Patmore: warm soup was just the thing. Then he frowned, thinking that the state of his trousers might have influenced the menu. He hoped they didn't think he was in too miserable a state. He pulled the bowl nearer, closed his eyes for a brief moment of gratitude, and then began to eat, realising just how hungry he was and how glad he was that Mary had overruled him. He looked up at her after finishing a mouthful or two of the delicious soup.

"What made you leave me a note at all?" he asked. "Surely this could have waited until dinner on Thursday."

Mary looked away and played with her necklace. "Aunt Rosamund sent me a telegram this morning." She released her necklace to hold the stem of her wine glass with both hands. "She doesn't approve of you, you know. Oh, she likes you well enough, but she thinks I could do better. She suggested a long engagement: after all, you might only ever be a _country solicitor!_ " Mary smiled. "I could practically hear her saying the words as if the very profession were a blemish on society."

Matthew laughed and shook his head, taking another spoonful of soup.

Mary picked up a roll and began to butter it. "Although," she continued, "if _this_ is what I have to look forward to, she might have a point. The state of your trousers!"

As his mouth was full at that point, he gave her a look and rubbed his muddy shoe against her foot. She pressed her foot back against his immediately and raised an eyebrow, tearing a piece off her roll. If he hadn't known what they were doing under the table, he wouldn't have suspected anything amiss from her manner above it.

"I said I was sorry about the mud," he replied, smiling and watching her closely as he continued to eat. He enjoyed searching for signs of what she was thinking, hoping to learn more about how his prospective bride revealed herself when she was trying to hide her true feelings.

Mary merely smiled mysteriously to herself and popped the bit of bread into her mouth.

"What?" he asked. She dabbed at her lips with a serviette. He noted that her foot was still touching his own.

"I don't mind the mud," she replied. At his look of disbelief, she shrugged. "I find the prospect of what will be required to deal with it quite…appealing."

He narrowed his eyes, finding it difficult to believe that Mary would embrace the idea of scrubbing the carpet, not to mention his clothing…and then his mouth dropped open. Surely she could not be saying what he thought she was saying. He stared at her, watching her appear nonchalant while not meeting his eyes—but then he saw a most becoming blush rising on her neck—and a slow smile crept across his face.

There was a soft knock on the door and the moment was broken. Their feet flew apart and they both turned to look as Cora peeked in. "Is everything quite all right in here?" she asked, smiling at them both.

"Yes, Mama," Mary said with a polite smile. "Matthew was just finishing up. Weren't you, Matthew?"

His bowl of soup was only half-finished, a fact that was quite obvious to Cora, he was sure, but he nodded and laid his serviette on the table. The family would not permit him and Mary more time alone together this evening, and he was chagrined to acknowledge there was more than a little wisdom in that. October seemed an age away; he would have liked nothing better than to bring her home with him tonight. As it was, he did not think he would find undressing to be nearly as tedious an experience as he'd expected. He stood and Mary rose beside him.

"The soup was delicious. Please thank Mrs Patmore," he said, regaining his composure as he followed Mary out of the dining room.

"I'll be sure to do that," Cora replied, her eyes twinkling. They crossed to the entryway, where William was waiting with Matthew's hat. "Will you and Cousin Isobel be joining us for Thursday dinner, as usual?"

"Yes, I expect so," he replied, taking his hat with a smile of thanks to William, who smiled back.

"Thank you again for supper," he said, looking at Mary.

"Good night." She gave him a small smile.

"Good night," he answered, matching her expression. He touched his hat and nodded to Cora, who was still smiling widely at him.

He stepped out into the warm night air, a spring in his step and a smile on his face, looking forward to the rest of his evening.

* * *

**Three days later**

"I'm so glad the wedding is still on," Violet said. "Now he'll love her until the end of his days."

Cora laughed and relaxed back against the chaise longue in her bedroom, enjoying the warmth of the late-morning sunlight that spilled through the windows. "I do believe you're right." She sighed and then smiled. "Now we just have the wedding to plan! I know Mary insisted we wait until Sybil's first Season was completed, but the prospect of starting now is daunting. I'm just so tired so much of the time: the hospital benefit is already taxing my endurance. And the thought of managing a houseful of guests in October!" She shook her head. "Can you imagine: the mother of the bride, expecting? It's almost shameful!"

"Psh. It's nothing of the kind," Violet said. "This is a source of great joy. Another grandchild in my old age! Why, the prospect almost makes me feel twenty years younger. I well remember the excitement surrounding Mary's birth."

"And you might have a great-grandchild in a year's time as well!"

Violet pursed her lips. "Yes, that would be lovely too, of course."

Cora frowned. "How is that any different?"

"A great-grandchild? It makes me sound so _old_ , as if I should have shuffled off this mortal coil by now."

Cora waved her off with a disbelieving laugh. "You can't be serious."

"When you're my age, you can be as serious as you like."

Cora just shook her head.

"Still, I admire you," Violet said. "You're handling this whole affair with such equanimity. I'm sure I wouldn't have been half so calm had I found myself in your position. I was quite finished after Rosamund was born." She eyed Cora for a moment. "I must say: you've made Robert a very happy man, and I'm not just referring to the possibility of an heir. It's not many men who still enjoy their marriage at this stage in their life. I salute you, my dear."

Cora raised her eyebrows. "You exaggerate, surely."

"No, I do not think I do. Speaking of marriage, don't worry yourself about Mary and Matthew. Mary is more than capable of making all the arrangements, with my help, of course."

"Mary? Arrange her own wedding? You must be joking!"

"I will oversee her efforts, but you must rest yourself and not worry about a thing."

Cora eyed her. "I think perhaps I'll be _more_ worried, not less, to leave all the planning to the two of you."

Violet sat back, giving her stick a twist and looking affronted, although a smile tugged at her lips. "You wound me! You forget that I oversaw the arrangements of three marriages. I am quite capable of handling a fourth."

"Three?" Cora asked, frowning. "Ours, Rosamund's, and who else's?"

"My own, of course."

Cora looked politely sceptical. "Didn't your mother object?"

Violet glanced to the side a moment. "She arranged the match, but she became…unwell…as the day approached. She passed only a few months after we were wed."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it."

Violet nodded. After a brief silence, she said:

"I've written to your mother. She's very anxious, naturally. She suggested coming over."

"Oh God," Cora muttered, wincing.

"Yes, well, that's what I thought, so I put her off, told her to come for the wedding."

"And she'll want to stay until the baby is born," Cora sighed.

"Mm. I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about that." Violet turned as the door clicked open.

O'Brien entered, a bath sheet draped over one arm. She took in the Dowager Countess at a glance and looked at Lady Grantham. "I'll just go run Your Ladyship's bath."

"Thank you, O'Brien," Her Ladyship said.

"Ooh! Have you had any answers about the position?" The Dowager leaned forward.

Sarah O'Brien's ears pricked up and her resentment simmered, but she continued her steady stride as she moved past the two women. Of course they would speak about her as if she weren't even there. Typical.

"Quite a few," Lady Grantham answered, reaching for the stack of letters on the side-table.

"All this talk of marriage," the Dowager's tone turned disapproving as Sarah went into the next room to run the bath. "There must be something in the air. I don't know what Simmons sees in him: he's just a grocer." The Dowager sniffed. "Apparently they've been exchanging letters for years and he just recently made an offer."

"How romantic!" Her Ladyship replied, sounding distracted. Sarah frowned. _Simmons? The Dowager's lady's maid?_

"So what do they sound like?" the Dowager asked.

"There's one I think has real possibilities," Her Ladyship answered. "She learned to do hair in Paris, while she was working for the Ambassadress!"

"Oh!" The Dowager sounded intrigued. "Ooh, that sounds promising. She doesn't mention any romantic letter-writers, does she?"

Her Ladyship gave a soft laugh. "She does not."

"Very well. And the others?"

Sarah draped the bath sheet over a stool and ran the taps, drowning out the conversation in the next room. She waited until the water was just as Her Ladyship preferred, her mind spinning all the while. Could it be that the adverts had been for the Dowager and not for Her Ladyship? Sarah frowned, suddenly uncertain, as her rage ebbed away. Lady Grantham _had_ been unfailingly polite to Sarah since that unfortunate sacking conversation, even praising her work once. Although Sarah had not heard of any staffing changes at the Dower House, perhaps she ought to look into it. Thomas might have heard something.

She left the bathtub to fill up and went to gather Her Ladyship's soap and bathrobe. Laying them down, Sarah glanced about. Everything looked to be in its place, so she went out into the bedroom. The Dowager Countess was reading a letter while Lady Grantham sat looking out the window. Her Ladyship seemed tired. To be carrying a babe at her age! She would require more frequent attendance. It had been years since Sarah had had the care of an expectant mother; she needed to brush up on her knowledge of sleeping draughts and search out the best sources of advice for ensuring Her Ladyship's comfort at this delicate time.

"Your bath is ready, my lady," Sarah announced quietly.

Her Ladyship roused. "Oh, yes. Thank you, O'Brien."

"I'll just be off," the Dowager Countess said, handing the letter back to Lady Grantham.

"Of course," Her Ladyship replied, putting it back in its envelope and standing slowly. Sarah moved to support her, but Lady Grantham waved her off with a tired smile. "Will you be joining us for dinner?"

"Of course! I must discuss the invitations and the flowers with Mary as soon as possible. There is no time to waste. And of course I must speak with Isobel; I suspect Matthew does not own a morning coat." The Dowager made her way to the door.

"Likely not," Her Ladyship agreed. "But you never know: he may have stood up with a friend in Manchester."

The Dowager sniffed. "Anything is possible, but who knows what Manchester tailors would make of it? We may very well need to have a new one made."

"Clearly you must speak with Cousin Isobel," Her Ladyship replied with a smile.

"Just so," the Dowager said. "I shall see you at dinner."

"O'Brien will have me there in fine form," Her Ladyship agreed, giving Sarah a fond smile. "Won't you, O'Brien?"

"Of course, my lady."

The Dowager nodded her approval and strode out.

"Let's get you into the bath, my lady."

"Oh," Her Ladyship sighed. "I am so looking forward to a good soak!"

"Then we shall have to see that you get one," Sarah replied, the picture of calm authority and competence. She would have Her Ladyship ready for dinner in fine form.


	9. Chapter 9

_9_

"So everything is quite all right, then?" Robert asked with a frown, looking between Mary and Matthew. "Only you arrived so out of sorts Monday evening."

Matthew looked chagrined. "It was a misunderstanding. Mary had left a note saying that she needed to speak with me. After the happy news—" at this, he looked at Cora, who smiled back at him and smoothed her dress, her hand passing over her abdomen as if coincidentally. Mary suppressed the urge to roll her eyes; who did Mama think she was fooling? "—I was concerned that something had happened, so I came over directly."

"Of course," Cora said. "How kind of you!" She frowned at Mary. "I'm surprised at you, Mary, leaving such a note!"

Mary sighed. "I  _told_  him to come at his convenience. I didn't demand that he rush over the moment he read it!"

Robert smiled. "I hope this will teach you to be more careful in future, then."

They heard the sounds of activity in the foyer.

"I will have to be, if I want to avoid incurring Carson's wrath," she answered, glancing briefly past Robert. "I'm afraid Gwen might have spent the whole of the morning on her knees in the great hall."

Matthew shot Mary a mock-wounded look and she merely raised an eyebrow in return.

"She did nothing of the sort, my lady," Carson said, striding into the room from the front entrance. Matthew gave Mary a 'so there!' look and then Carson said, "I had William do that."

Cora, who had been watching Mary's interaction with Matthew, laughed at the resulting look on his face.

"Don't bother yourself about it," Cora said, waving a hand towards Matthew. "There was barely a smudge."

Carson's expression behind Cora belied her words. Mary suppressed a smile.

Robert grinned as he twisted around in his seat to look at the butler. The smile fell away from his face, however, and he stood as a second figure entered the room behind Carson.

"The Honourable Mr Napier, my lord," Carson said, stepping aside with a slight bow.

Mary and Matthew had stood up as well and they exchanged nods with Evelyn Napier as he came further into the room, holding his hat in his hand.

"Please, do sit down, Mr Napier," Cora said, indicating the chair that they'd set for him beside Violet's. "Thank you for coming! I trust the journey was not difficult."

"Lord Grantham, Countess, Lady Grantham," Evelyn said, nodding at Robert, Cora, and Violet in turn. Robert shook his hand and all who were standing sat down. "Yes, the journey was quite pleasant, thank you." Evelyn glanced around at all of them, his gaze moving finally to Cora as he gave her a warm smile. "I hear that you are to be congratulated, Lady Grantham."

Her answering smile and nod confirmed the news.

"And how are your wedding plans going?" Mary asked, smiling as well.

Evelyn glanced to the side, then looked back at her. "Not very well, actually. We've decided to call it off."

There was a general susurration of surprise and then Mary said, "Really? It seemed quite fixed at Sybil's ball." She looked down for a moment. "What a shame."

Evelyn tilted his head to the side. "It'll be better in the long run," he said.

"Perhaps," she replied, eager to be cheerful. She gave him a smile. "I know what high hopes you have of the institution."

He chuckled and grinned at her. Matthew glanced between them with interest, but Evelyn was quite finished with pleasantries. He cleared his throat and looked at Robert. "I trust that Lord Flintshire's telegram arrived yesterday evening?"

"It did," Robert said. "Although aside from mentioning the expected time of your arrival and whom you wished to speak with, there was nothing of note in it."

Violet pursed her lips and glanced at Cora. Mary frowned slightly at this exchange.

"We thought it best not to say too much in a public message," Evelyn replied.

"Is it truly that serious?" Robert asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Evelyn shook his head. "Not exactly. It is more a matter of discretion than safety."

"So there is no credible threat to my life?"

Cora gasped. "Robert! What is this—?"

Robert put out a hand to calm her. "Nothing, it's nothing."

She shot Evelyn a questioning look and he nodded. He glanced at Matthew.

"I'm sorry to have caused any concern on that point," Evelyn said, returning his gaze to Robert. "Let me assure you that the Turkish Ambassador has been quite clear that they wish no one any harm and they accept Kemal Pamuk's death as unfortunate, but due to natural causes. The Ambassador apologised for any mention of Mary in connection with it being spread beyond the confines of the Embassy."

"I'm sure he did," Mary said dryly.

Evelyn gave her a wry nod in response, but said, "At all events, consider the matter closed. They will take no further action, as there is nothing further for them to do. They have no more information than a single letter that was sent to the Embassy shortly after Mr Pamuk's death."

"A letter?" Robert frowned. "From whom?"

Evelyn looked down. "This is the hard part." He lifted his eyes again and looked at Mary. "When I discovered the answer, I debated whether I should relay it." He turned to Robert. "Lord Flintshire's involvement forced my hand, as he had not known that I was making my own inquiries at the time. The Ambassador brought me to his attention."

"But I thought you worked for Shrimpie," Robert said with a frown.

"I do," Evelyn replied.

"Wait—who's Shrimpie?" Matthew asked, glancing between them in obvious confusion.

"Hugh MacClare, the Marquess of Flintshire. His wife Susan is my cousin," Robert said with a wave of his hand. "He acquired the nickname in a nursery game."

"I was attempting to be discreet," Evelyn said. "Raising the issue with him before I had reason to do so would have brought more attention to—" he glanced at Mary, then away again, "—a situation that might not have required it."

"Thank you," Mary said. "But how did he become aware of it in the first place?"

"I'm afraid that was my doing," Robert said. "After Matthew relayed Mr Napier's concerns about my safety, I sent Shrimpie a letter, asking if there was anything to the whole business."

Mary exchanged a look with Matthew.

"Actually, Robert," Violet put in, "it wasn't your doing at all. The Ambassador has been spreading these rumours for weeks. Shrimpie learned of it from him, and Susan wrote me directly to ask whether the rumours were true. I denied them, of course."

Robert's expression was dark. "Why was I not informed of this?"

Violet glanced at Matthew, then back at Robert. "You didn't know of the matter yet and we thought it best to keep it that way."

"You thought it best...?" Robert scowled. "Who is 'we'?"

"This debate is pointless," Mary said, impatient to get to the purpose of Evelyn's visit. "All that's done with and we're wasting Mr Napier's precious time."  _Not to mention exposing our family's weaknesses to an outsider._

Robert subsided, his expression still annoyed, and Violet gave her an approving glance. They all turned to Evelyn, who shifted uncomfortably before he spoke.

"Yes, well, it turned out that Lord Flintshire did know about the rumours already, but he didn't know how the Ambassador was getting his information. The Ambassador had only told him that a 'reliable source' had given them compelling evidence."

"So how did you discover it if Shrimpie could not?" Robert asked.

"I'd rather not say," Evelyn replied. "But I discussed the matter with Lord Flintshire and in the end," he looked at Mary, "we agreed that you ought to know."

"The suspense is killing me," Mary said.

Evelyn paused, then said: "It was your sister, Lady Edith, who wrote to the Ambassador. That is why people accept the story."

Mary closed her eyes, stung.

"Edith!" Robert exclaimed. Mary opened her eyes. Cora was covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide. Violet was sitting stiffly, but was strangely unmoved. Matthew's face was pulled into a deep frown.

Evelyn looked down. "It is very hard to believe."

"Harder for you—" Mary began.

"Do you have proof?" Matthew asked, his eyes narrowed.

Evelyn shifted uncomfortably, but returned Matthew's gaze without flinching. "No, unfortunately. I was able to see the letter, but was unable to retrieve it."

"Why not?"

"When I returned, it had gone missing," Evelyn replied.

"Gone missing," Matthew repeated. "And we're merely to take your word for such a serious accusation?"

"Matthew!" Robert cut in. "This is not how we treat our guests! Mr Napier travelled quite a distance, at great inconvenience to himself, to tell us this information."

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Napier's  _convenience_  is the least of my concerns," Matthew shot back. "First one and now another of your daughters' reputations is being blackened, and you care more for Mr Napier's  _feelings_?"

"Matthew," Cora said, warning in her tone, with a shake of her head.

Mary put a restraining hand on his arm. He scowled at the floor.

"He's right," Evelyn said quietly. "At this point, it is my word against Lady Edith's, and I am quite aware—" he glanced at Mary, "—that there is reason to be suspicious of my motivations." He turned his gaze to Matthew, who was watching him now. "Know that I bear this family no ill will and that I am speaking the truth to the best of my ability."

Matthew gave him a sullen nod.

"You called for me, Papa?" Edith said, hurrying into the library through the door behind Mary, Sybil close on her heels. William had been holding the door open for them; he remained standing beside it after it closed.

"Is something the matter?" Sybil asked. She smiled when she saw Evelyn, who stood up immediately. "Dear Mr Napier! We thought we saw you arriving just now!" she exclaimed happily. "What brings you here?" Her gaze fell to the hat that he held in his hands and she frowned. She glanced at the rest of the company, all of whom had by now risen to their feet, with the exception of Cora and Violet. "Will you be staying for lunch?"

"I'm afraid not, Lady Sybil," Evelyn replied, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He glanced at the others. "I was just here on business with your father. I must return to London by this afternoon; I have a prior engagement."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it," Sybil said. She glanced at Edith, who hung back, looking nervous. Sybil pressed on, determined to be civil despite the tension in the room. "Do say hello to Bernadette for me, will you? She was such a dear at my ball!"

Evelyn's expression was polite, but distant. "Of course I would be pleased to do so, but I'm afraid that she and I are no longer on speaking terms," he said.

Sybil frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear it."

Evelyn cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I must be off." He turned to Robert. "Thank you for seeing me on so little notice."

Cora stood as Robert shook his head dismissively, still frowning at Lady Edith.

"No, thank  _you_ , Mr Napier," Robert said, returning his attention to Evelyn before shooting a reproachful glance at Matthew. "We appreciate your coming all this way. You were right to tell us as you did."

Mary went to pull the bell cord.

Evelyn nodded. "You were very kind to include us in the hunt and to show us such generous hospitality. I only hope that I may visit again, under much better circumstances."

"Of course you are welcome, Mr Napier," Cora said. "Please do let us know when you are next in Yorkshire."

"I will, Lady Grantham," he said, smiling. He inclined his head in her direction before addressing the rest of them. "Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, Mr Crawley." He turned and smiled at Sybil, who was standing near their circle now. "Lady Sybil." His eyes fell on the wide-eyed figure of Edith, who stood stiffly behind Sybil. "Lady Edith." His expression was less warm when directed at her, but he did not look at her for long. He returned his gaze to Robert. "I'll take my leave."

"Of course," Robert replied. "Branson will take you back at once. Carson?"

Carson nodded and gestured to William as Evelyn strode towards the front entrance. "Branson is waiting with the car, my lord."

"Very good," Robert nodded.

William escorted Evelyn back to the foyer while Carson moved past them to take William's place beside the door.

The family stood in tense silence for a long moment, and then all eyes but Sybil's turned to Edith. Sybil's gaze quickly followed and she gave Edith a puzzled frown.

Edith looked at all of them and then she lifted her chin and said, "You called for me, Papa?" Her voice was even, but her hands were held tightly together.

"Did you write to the Turkish Ambassador?" he asked coldly.

Edith's mouth tightened and something approaching tears came into her eyes.

"Was that what Mr Napier told you?" she asked. "You'll believe the word of a man who might very well have been the source of the rumours himself?"

"You know about the rumours," Cora said.

"Well, of  _course_ ," Edith said, and a brief, bitter, almost-smile flashed across her lips. "Doesn't everyone?"

Her glance quickly swept to Mary's and then away again. Sybil stared, trying to understand what was happening. What rumours?

"So you deny you wrote a letter to the Turkish Ambassador, then?" Mary asked.

Edith's chin trembled. "I don't see why you're all looking at me like that. Why would I ever do such a thing?"

"Oh, I could easily think of half a dozen reasons," Mary snapped.

"You still haven't answered the question," Matthew said in a hard voice. Sybil's eyes widened at his tone; she'd never heard him speak that way before.

"It doesn't matter what I say," Edith bit out, addressing their parents. "You've already decided against me. You'll believe the word of a distant acquaintance over your own daughter!"

Violet cleared her throat quite distinctly, as Carson straightened up beside her with a curt nod, his face very grave. He closed a leather-bound portfolio and tucked it back under his arm. Sybil's eyes moved quickly from the portfolio to the creased sheet of paper held in her grandmother's hand. Violet passed it across to Robert and Cora in silence. After a moment, their mouths fell open.

"Oh, Edith, how  _could_  you?" Cora asked in a near-whisper.

"How did you  _get_  this?" Robert demanded of Violet.

"I have my ways," she answered.

The room seemed generally shocked into silence.

Sybil looked back and forth between Edith and Cora, her eyes wide. "What's that? What's going on?"

"So what if I did?" Edith burst out. "He deserved to know how his countryman died. In the arms of a—" she cut herself off, her hands balling into fists.

"A what?" Mary asked, her voice quiet as silk.

Edith's eyes flashed at her. "You know."

"Edith!" Robert said.

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Sybil asked.

Edith turned on her with an ugly smile. "Kemal Pamuk died in—"

Matthew drew in a sharp breath. Cora moved to stand.

"Edith!" Robert stepped forward, cutting her off. "You will go to your room at once."

"Am I a child, to be so dismissed?" she demanded.

"If you continue to act like one, you will be treated like one!" he roared.

Tears flashed in Edith's eyes. "Why am I the one to be punished when  _Mary_  is the one who—"

"Obey your father!" Cora snapped, now on her feet. She stepped towards Edith as well. Matthew stared at Cora in shock; he'd never heard her speak in such a rough voice before.

"I have always obeyed you," Edith's chin trembled and she straightened, quieting her voice, "and I am always overlooked. Everyone treats Mary as though she's a darling," at this, Edith's cold gaze turned to Matthew, "but no one knows what she's  _truly_  like."

Matthew's voice was quiet. "This was not a revelation to me, Edith. Mary told me herself the night I proposed."

Edith's eyes widened and then her expression fell. She looked at Mary. "You don't deserve him," she said, in a strangled voice that was nearly a whisper.

"Edith!" Robert growled, but Edith had already gathered her skirts and begun to rush past them, shaking her head, her mouth pulled down in a rictus of pain as tears streamed down her cheeks. She ignored Carson, who had taken a step towards the door, and she pulled it open and threw herself through it, her sobs echoing in the great hall as the door closed slowly behind her. They heard William call "Lady Edith?" in a worried tone, just before the door sealed.

Sybil cleared her throat. "I'd best go after her," she said.

"No," Robert said. "I think Edith needs some time alone to reflect on her actions."

Sybil's eyes widened, but she gave a short nod. She looked on the verge of tears herself, as she turned to look at Mary. "Edith knows something about how Mr Pamuk died?" she asked.

Mary nodded and looked away.

"Sybil, I think you should go see if Mrs Patmore is ready to serve lunch," Cora said.

Mary looked up, her jaw set. "Sybil is an adult; she should be allowed to know. She's learned this much already."

"I'll go, Your Ladyship," Carson said quietly, and exchanged a brief glance with Robert before leaving the room.

Cora sighed and looked at Robert. He seemed pained, and did not speak or meet Sybil's eyes. Matthew looked at Mary, who nodded and then dropped her eyes to their joined hands.

"Kemal Pamuk…took advantage of Mary, against her will," Matthew said. Sybil stared at him and gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. She looked at Mary's downturned face and then back to Matthew when he spoke again. "He died whilst assaulting her. Edith doesn't know the whole of it."

Tears had sprung into Sybil's eyes. "Oh, God. Mary."

"Yes," Mary said, straightening. "I'm quite finished with this. I'm going for a walk."

"I'll come with you," Matthew said.

Mary shook her head, drawing her hand out of his grasp and giving him a grateful look. "I want to be alone."

He nodded.

She gave him a small smile, then turned to her parents. "Please tell Carson I won't be joining you for lunch," she said.

Cora stepped closer and put a hand on her arm. "Oh my dear. Are you sure? I could have some sandwiches put aside for you."

"No, but thank you, Mama."

With a final glance at Robert and Matthew, Mary stepped quietly past them and went out through the glass doors that opened on to the lawn. The family watched her receding form for a few moments in silence and then Matthew cleared his throat. "Well, I must be going. My train leaves in less than an hour."

"Of course," Robert said, turning back. "Might we take our morning walk on Friday instead?"

"Let me ask Mary," Matthew said. "We had planned to ride on Friday morning."

"Then don't let me stop you," Robert said. "I'm sure Jarvis will be delighted to have a week without us nosing about."

Matthew nodded. "Until tomorrow's dinner, then," he said, and inclined his head to Cora, Robert, Sybil, and Violet before striding out of the room.

"I'm not terribly hungry, either," Sybil said, her expression pained and tight. "I'll be in my room."

"I'll have them send up a tray," Cora said.

Sybil gave her a weak smile. "Thank you, Mama."

Robert and Cora turned to each other after Sybil had left.

"What a dreadful mess," Robert muttered.

"The question is," Cora said, her voice sharp despite her evident weariness. "What are we to do about Edith?"

"To do? What is there to do? I can hardly take the switch to her," Robert said. "Besides, it's all in the past, and with Mary and Matthew set to wed in a few weeks, there's no real harm done. Edith is shamed enough now, isn't she? Her deed will never be forgotten and I doubt it will be easily forgiven, either."

"It's the principle of the thing, Robert," Violet said. "This kind of behaviour is not to be tolerated."

Robert frowned down at her. "It's Mary and Edith, Mama. You know they've always been at each other's throats. This was just more of the same. And she has a point. Mary is hardly an angel, yet she never seems to suffer for her childish behaviour. Take Matthew: I thought that silly stunt she pulled with Sir Anthony would have finally put him off."

Cora smiled. "Love does not keep a record of wrongs, apparently."

Robert shook his head with a wry smile. "I know  _that_  well enough. Otherwise you would never have married  _me_."

Cora drew close and smiled up at him and he embraced her briefly.

"I  _am_  still sitting right here, you know," Violet observed.

Robert pulled back and sighed with a frown, glancing between his wife and his mother. "Don't think I've finished with you two," he said. "I'm not pleased with the way you hid this whole situation from me for so long."

Cora sighed and Violet raised her eyebrows.

"Until Matthew told us," Cora said quietly, "I never knew that Pamuk had convinced her that she had no choice in the matter. When I asked if he'd forced her, she'd said no—meaning that he hadn't used physical force on her. I didn't ask further. I just assumed. What would you have done if I'd told you what I knew, before Matthew had discovered the truth? How would you have responded?"

Robert frowned.

"Mary would have borne the brunt of your displeasure and you would have sent her away," Cora said. "I wanted to protect her."

Robert's frown deepened. He was disturbed by the fact that he had no answer to this. She knew him too well.

"Sometimes, Robert, it's best to let the women of the family handle certain matters," Violet said. "The real question now is what to do about Edith."

Robert turned away in frustration.

Cora pursed her lips. "There is something."

He gave her a puzzled look.

"She confided to me a few days ago that she thinks Sir Anthony plans to propose to her at the hospital benefit."

"That's the garden party we're hosting in a few days, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes."

He frowned. "Are you suggesting that I ask him not to?"

"Not permanently," Cora said quickly. "Just…delay him a bit."

"What reason could I possibly give?"

"You could say that it might be best if he were to wait until after the wedding," Violet suggested. "Perhaps to ensure that Edith doesn't have to share any of the spotlight with her sister."

Robert considered this a moment, still uncomfortable. "It would put him in an awkward position if he were to see her at the party," he said. "Not to mention that it would be terribly presumptuous of me to even broach the topic with him, as he has not asked my permission yet. We have no idea if Edith's interpretation of events is accurate. If she were wrong, it would be dreadfully embarrassing."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "I never said that being the father of three daughters would be easy."

Robert chuckled and shook his head.

"I don't think Edith is interpreting his intentions incorrectly," Cora said. "He's been making his regard for her quite plain, you know."

Robert sighed and nodded. "But he's nearly our age! What could he be thinking? Is she truly serious about him? He's a good man, but not exactly the most dashing sort."

"My thoughts exactly," Violet said, getting to her feet and starting towards the door.

Cora smiled. "Perhaps not, but then, neither is Edith. It would be a good match for her."

He sighed. "I suppose you're right. And it would be nice to have her so close." Robert glanced down at Cora's belly. "Matthew hasn't mentioned anything to me, but I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he were to take Mary back to Manchester."

"Or London, if she has her way," Cora smirked. "They're still disagreeing about where to live."

"I can't see them remaining at Downton if we no longer have need of him."

Cora hummed in agreement, then said, "And God only knows where Sybil might end up."

They laughed together and walked towards the door, where his mother stood waiting expectantly, a small smile on her face.

"Taking lunch without the girls," Robert observed, pulling the door open for her to walk through, Cora behind her. "It's been a few years since we've enjoyed that luxury."

Cora smiled back at him over her shoulder. "And it may be a few more yet."

He chuckled and followed her out of the library.

* * *

Edith sat on the window-seat in her bedroom, gazing sullenly out as she watched Mary's tiny, receding figure disappear over the rise. It was all so terribly unfair. Mary, so superior, so cruel and cold, who took such delight in tormenting her and always had. Mary, who was always the one who drew men like flies to honey, with her precise beauty and carefully artful enticements. Edith would have liked to try one of Mary's haughty, smiling glances, if one man would but look at herself instead of her older sister. But no, they all looked at Mary. Even Matthew.

Edith wasn't in love with Matthew, but she liked him. He was a decent, kind person, and he was certainly better looking than any of them had been expecting. Edith would have been happy to have his attention.  _She_  wouldn't have put him down in front of the family or called him a 'sea monster'—Mary's incivility was so blatant!—or spent every possible moment showing off in front of him with ever more obscure references to the  _Aeneid_.

His only real flaw that Edith could see was his irrational regard for Mary. She didn't deserve him. She hadn't deserved Patrick, either. Only Edith had been able to see how much of a struggle it was for Patrick at Downton. She'd known that he wished she were the eldest instead of Mary; he'd gotten on so well with her, but Mary would only glance at him coldly and then ignore him, and the prospect of marrying such a thorn was not one he embraced.

Edith remembered Patrick with a pang, but she set it aside after a moment. There was nothing to be gained in dwelling on all that had been lost. She had to make the best of what she had in the present and she had done rather well, all things considered.

Mary was a cold bitch and a slut and she'd gotten her just desserts. Edith smiled at the empty landscape. It served Mary right for trying to hide such an act: now the whole of London Society knew of her dirty little escapade. Kemal Pamuk had died in Mary's bed, an awful thing to be sure, but no more than she deserved. Edith did not think that Mary had been the direct cause of his death, but there was something truly fitting in Mary's first lover dying in her arms. How many times had Mary caused the death of something that Edith had held dear?

At least Mary hadn't gotten to Sir Anthony yet, and Edith was determined not to let her. He was a good man, so thoughtful and intelligent and well spoken, with a lovely smile and warm eyes. Let Mary think him a bore; all the better! Mary's little stunt with the book on the modernisation of crop rotation had backfired, after all, hadn't it? Matthew had left early that evening, he had practically ignored Mary at the Flower Show the next morning when she'd made her paltry attempt at apologising, and he had only come to dinner a handful of times in the months following. Seeing the look on Mary's face each time Cousin Isobel had arrived alone had been well worth one minor defeat. Watching Mary sit in miserable silence while Matthew avoided her had made those few dinners when he  _had_  turned up some of Edith's favourite memories.

That night when she and Mary had competed for Sir Anthony's attention had not been a victory, though; Matthew's leaving had stung Edith more than she had expected. She'd felt somehow partly to blame for the hurt she'd seen in his eyes, and to be honest, watching him seem miserable at those dinners hadn't been very satisfying.

Edith scowled. Of course, when he  _had_  turned up again, he'd proposed to Mary, but still. There had been eight whole months of Edith driving with Sir Anthony and seeing him at dinner frequently and discussing all sorts of interesting things about managing the estates! He made her laugh and listened to what she had to say. It had been a novel sensation to see her suitor about so often, and none in sight for Mary.

There was a soft knock on her door and Edith glanced over with a frown. A moment later, Sybil's dark head popped in.

"Edith?" she said.

Edith gave her a tight smile and looked out the window again. Sybil came across the room almost noiselessly and slid on to the window-seat, pulling her stockinged feet up underneath her.

Edith looked at her. "I'm not going to apologise for what I did," she said.

Sybil frowned. "What exactly did you do?"

"I just told the truth," Edith said.

"What did you see?"

Edith looked away. "I didn't. I heard something through the wall: a man's voice. But then it went quiet and I was nearly asleep, so I thought nothing of it. But the servants were concerned. O'Brien came to me."

"O'Brien? What had she to do with it?"

"Nothing," Edith said, looking back at Sybil. "But Daisy was upset and O'Brien was worried about her and, well…the whole story came out, you see. Daisy had seen Mary carrying Mr Pamuk's dead body around a corner."

Sybil looked horrified. "But how could she have managed it alone? The bachelor's corridor is on the other side of the house!"

Edith shrugged. "She probably had help. Anna, I expect."

"Anna!" Sybil's eyes widened.

"Mine as well," their mother said from across the room. Both girls turned in surprise. Cora was standing beside the door that Sybil had left open. She pushed it closed.

"…you knew?" Edith asked.

Cora crossed the room, her expression hard. "You did a terrible thing, Edith," she said.

Edith's back stiffened. "I only did what my conscience demanded!"

"Your  _conscience?_ " Cora frowned. "If you had one ounce of conscience, you would have protected your sister, not exposed her!"

"Oh, as she has protected me?" Edith snapped, then looked chagrined.

"I will not tolerate vindictiveness. I have allowed this war to go on between the two of you for too long. Mary has not been any kinder to you than you have been to her, but she has never done  _anything_  that would warrant such a reprehensible act on your part!"

Edith got to her feet, her fists tight at her sides and her body trembling. "She took a lover! A Turk! She is no more than a common  _slut!_ "

"Edith!" Cora roared, and both girls cringed. She'd never raised a hand to either of them before, but this seemed an extraordinary moment. They stared at her with wide eyes. Cora drew in a deep breath, then exhaled, lowering her hands slowly. Her voice became even and carefully controlled. "Mary was taken against her will."

Edith scoffed at this. "I never heard her scream."

Sybil glanced between them, her eyes wide. "Neither did I. Oh, if only I'd been listening!"

Cora put out her hands. "She didn't scream. She asked him to leave and threatened to scream, but Mr Pamuk told her that there was no use in doing so, because even if she did, a man would still be discovered in her bedroom and she would be lost anyway."

Sybil's face darkened and she actually growled. Both Cora and Edith looked at her in surprise.

"What?" Sybil demanded. "Not only would I have screamed at that, I would have hit him with something, too!"

Edith scoffed. "With what, your pillow?"

"If I had to!"

"Girls!" Cora said.

"But Mary didn't do either of those things," Edith said with a cruel little smile, crossing her arms. "Because she  _wanted_  his attentions."

Sybil rounded on her. " _What!?_ " she demanded.

"She did!" Edith answered. "Mary flirted shamelessly with the man the whole day: you saw them after the hunt. It was disgraceful! She practically flung herself at him! What could he be  _expected_  to think after that?"

"Are you telling me that it's Mary's  _fault_  that Mr Pamuk imposed himself on her?" Sybil hissed in a cold fury.

"Well, yes," Edith replied coolly.

Sybil growled again and spun in a tight circle. Cora and Edith stared at her as she searched for something in a jerky fashion, finally yanking a cushion off the window-seat and pounding on it viciously before throwing it back down.

"Sybil," Cora said, taking a step towards her.

"I'm fine," Sybil ground out, breathing deliberately through her nose. "I just needed to hit something, and I can't hit Edith."

"You're such a baby," Edith said.

"What is  _wrong_  with you?" Sybil asked. "When did you become such a monster? This isn't you!"

Edith stared at her.

"What happened to my big sister Edith, who soothed my scrapes and read to me when I was sick and snuck me sweets from Mrs Patmore?"

Edith blinked and looked away.

"It's not Mary's  _fault_  that Mr Pamuk raped her!" Sybil said. Cora winced at the baldness of Sybil's words, but Sybil blazed on without a pause. "This whole attitude of blaming the woman is a huge part of why society is plagued by such evil! Why is no one accusing Mr Pamuk of wrongdoing here?"

"Because he's dead," Edith said dryly.

"So, what? Blame the surviving victim instead?"

"Mary invited his attention."

"Mary could have danced naked on the dining room table," Sybil snapped. "That still wouldn't have given him the right to enter her bedroom without her permission and then  _lie_  to her about what would happen if she tried to call for help!"

"I'm not so sure it was a lie," Edith said. "Her reputation  _would_  have been dealt a blow."

" _God_ , I can't have this conversation," Sybil growled. "It's like talking to a wall." She looked at her mother. "I'm going for a walk."

"What about your tray?"

Sybil waved her hand dismissively as she stalked towards the door. "I'm not hungry." She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back at Edith. "Every time Mary was horrible to you, I went to her and tried to convince her to go back to you and apologise. I thought you didn't deserve her scorn, but now I'm not so sure." Edith's eyes widened at this. "I'm so disappointed in you," Sybil said bitterly, and left.

Edith stared at the door, her face pale. Cora crossed the room and closed the door, then turned around.

"We all are disappointed in you, Edith," Cora said. "Something truly terrible happened to your sister, and you made it infinitely worse with your selfish vindictiveness."

Edith blinked and swayed as though struck by a physical blow.

Cora's face softened and she drew closer, eventually reaching up to cup Edith's cheek. "My sweet girl," she said. Her eyes roved over Edith's hair and she smiled sadly when they returned to Edith's gaze. "I know we have not given you all the credit you deserve. Until this unfortunate circumstance, I would have said you were our best-behaved child, so sweet and thoughtful and sensitive." Cora's smile disappeared and her hand fell away from Edith's face. "I had not thought you capable of something like this."

"I'm sorry, Mama," Edith whispered, before she truly realised what she was saying.

Cora's eyes narrowed. "Sorry for doing it, or sorry for being caught out?"

At Edith's silence, Cora nodded.

"Your father has gone to speak with Sir Anthony."

Edith's eyes widened and suddenly filled with tears as she scowled and stepped back. "What?"

"We think it best if Sir Anthony were to wait until after the wedding to offer for you."

Edith was crying furiously now. " _Best?!_  You think it  _best?_  If Papa tells him what I did, he might never offer for me at all!"

Cora regarded her in silence for a long moment. Edith did not meet her eyes.

"You need the time to reflect on what you have done and to decide who you will be from now on. Marriage and family are heavy responsibilities, Edith, and you must demonstrate that you are prepared to take them on before your father and I can give our blessing to any union that you may choose to enter into. We do not want you to be unhappy in your married life."

"Mary isn't perfect yet."

"No, she is not, and we are not asking you to be. This is not about Mary. This about you and the man you love."

Edith's eyes shot up to Cora's in shock. Cora gave her a sad smile.

"He is good for you, Edith. I can see how happy he makes you and you make him happy, too. I know you have it within you to be a wonderful wife and mother."

"Especially if I don't have to live with Mary when I am one," Edith muttered.

Cora chuckled. "Yes, you do tend to bring out the worst in each other."

Edith gave her a not-quite-smile. Cora turned to leave. Just before she reached the door, she turned around. Edith stood framed in the light from the window, looking small and alone.

"You should know that your father would never tell Sir Anthony what you have done. That is for you, and you alone, to reveal, should you choose to do so. We protect one another: that is what being a family means. And Edith, before you judge Mary so harshly, consider what you would have done in her place, if Mr Pamuk had shown his attentions to  _you_."

With that, Cora stepped out, closing the door behind her with a soft sound.

Edith drew in a rough breath with a sudden sob. Her frame trembling, she sank down on to the window-seat, pressed her face into her hands, and cried.

* * *

When Mary reached the bench under the tree, she pulled up short. She'd been walking the grounds without really taking notice of the familiar surroundings, lost in her thoughts, and she was dismayed to realise that there was someone already seated on the bench. She'd been hoping for a quiet retreat, alone, in her favourite spot. As she lifted her eyes from the man's shoe on the grass to the crossed legs, she recognised the trousers and her eyes quickly flew to his face. He was reading a book and had another lying beside him on the bench.

"Matthew." The word was infused with surprise, confusion, concern, and an edge of annoyance. She'd told him she wanted to be alone but she was grateful for his presence all the same.

He looked up from his book with an air of having been aware of her presence long before she'd spoken.

"Mary." His expression was wary.

"Shouldn't you be in Ripon right now?"

He shook his head, laying a bookmark in between the pages before closing his book and setting it atop the other volume.

"But won't you be missed?" she asked.

"They know I had business with your father today," Matthew said, pulling off his driver's cap and laying it on his books. "They won't be concerned." He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "You're more important right now."

Her eyes widened at his words. She felt herself waver and her knees trembled. She needed to sit, but she would do it with composure. Drawing in a deep breath and lifting her chin, she took her seat beside him on the bench. The books lay between them. They sat in silence for a long moment and she gave him her bravest smile.

"Oh, Mary," he sighed, and moved the books to his other side. He drew up close beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened at first, uncomfortable with such a public display of affection, even though no one was in sight and the tree behind them offered some protection from spying eyes in the house.

When he did not tighten his arm, but merely held her in a loose embrace, she finally permitted herself to sit back against the bench and rest some of her weight against him.

Now she sat stiffly because she still wasn't ready to let him in, to face him. She couldn't bear to be pitied.

She looked at the landscape, letting her eyes drift over the familiar trees and shrubs and the way the land swelled and dipped and faded with distance. How many times since her childhood had she sat upon this bench and looked at this landscape? It was her home and she ached at the thought of being made to leave it. Whether or not he remained the heir, Matthew still wanted to live elsewhere. He wanted a home for his own family, rather than live forever under the shadow of her father's. She supposed all men felt this urge, but what did she know of making a home? She wanted only the comfort of the familiar, the ease of building upon what she already knew well. Why couldn't Matthew see that in a house so large as Downton Abbey, they could easily create a space that was their own? It would be so convenient...

"You don't have to bear it alone," Matthew said, and Mary turned to look at him with a frown of confusion. Then she remembered why he'd come, why he was sitting here beside her at midday in the middle of his working week.

She looked away again. She was accustomed to bearing things alone; that's what the eldest did. It was the best way to manage things when one's parents expected you to be a model daughter.

But now, here sat Matthew. She was both grateful for his presence and she was feeling put-upon, all at once. He wasn't content to let her alone.

That was a bit uncharitable of her, she reflected. He  _had_  allowed her to walk to her heart's content without following her. She glanced up at the overcast sky with a slight frown.

"How long was I gone?" she asked.

He pulled out his pocket-watch and glanced at it before replacing it in his waistcoat. "Nearly two hours."

She turned to look at him in surprise. "You've been sitting here for two hours?"

"No," he said, frowning slightly at her.  _Why is this important?_  "I went back to Crawley House first, intending to go on to the station, but then felt that I ought to see you instead. I was worried."

"You needn't be," she replied, looking away. "I'm fine."

The ringing silence made it clear that he was unconvinced.

She sighed. "What do you want from me, Matthew?"

He sat beside her in silence still, until she looked at him. He was frowning. She set her jaw and looked away again.

"Why do I get the sense that you're angry with me?" he asked. "Have I done something to offend you?"

She frowned down at her hands.

"I'm not one to wallow," she finally said. "It happened, Edith told the world about it, and it has occupied far too much of your and everyone else's time. I'm quite finished with it and I'd very much like to stop discussing it. Let's talk of something else. We haven't agreed upon a place to live yet and that's rather a pressing issue, considering that our wedding is only weeks away."

"No," Matthew said.

Mary turned to look at him with a frown.

"You can't shut me out of this," he said.

"I'm not 'shutting you out' of anything," she snapped, then closed her mouth and looked away. Her rise in emotion would only betray her if she said anything further.

"Mary," he said, and the tender quality of his voice only made her angrier. He took her hand, holding it loosely on her lap. "We're to wed soon, yes, but our marriage will not work if you refuse to allow me to know you thoroughly. You cannot continue to keep me at arms' length."

Her smile was twisted. "You'll 'know' me quite thoroughly, darling, don't worry."

He looked down with a chuckle, his jaw working, and then he shook his head and looked up at her. "You're skilled at this, but I am, too," he said quietly.

"You can't force me to speak," she said.

"And I would never want to," he answered. "I want you to speak willingly. To be honest with me, as you promised."

"I  _am_ being honest with you," she said. "I'm  _done_  with this whole business!"

She was torn; she wanted to stand up and stalk away from him again, away from his too-knowing eyes and his tender voice and his warm body, but she also wanted to be  _known_  and still loved. She frowned, blinking rapidly. What would be the harm in telling him how she felt? He couldn't possibly be shocked by anything she might say; he knew everything already and yet here he was, still sitting beside her.

She wasn't accustomed to this kind of treatment and it was uncomfortable. No one in her family made a habit of discussing their feelings, with the occasional exception of Sybil, and certainly no one pressed anyone else to do so. It just wasn't done.

But Mary knew nothing of the intimacies of marriage: was Matthew right? Were her own parents, when they were out of her sight, sitting about discussing their  _feelings?_  Mama might do so, perhaps, but the thought of Papa or Granny doing such a thing was laughable, even in the privacy of their bedrooms. Mama was an American, after all.

No, the harm in telling Matthew was not in him learning something shocking but in her putting voice to her thoughts: to speak the words aloud was to make them  _real_. Mary shook her head.

"Edith doesn't deserve any more of our time," she said.

Matthew pulled back, frustrated, and released her hand. "I'm surprised you're so eager to continue living here, since it would mean living in the same house with her."

"It's quite a big house," Mary said dryly.

"But not big enough, I think," he answered. She scowled. He sighed and looked away. "This wasn't at all how I'd envisioned this turning out."

She gave him a half-smile. "What had you imagined?"

He sat back against the bench, his arm still behind her, but now just resting on the wood instead of being around her shoulders. His smile was wry. "Something about you being in tears and me offering you comfort and me feeling like a hero, instead of so damned helpless."

His smile had fallen away with his final words and they came out sounding slightly choked.

She immediately twisted to look at him. "Don't tell me  _you're_  about to start blubbing, because I don't think I could bear that right now."

He laughed and shook his head, but the laughter was bitter. "No."

"So what's this about feeling helpless?" she asked. "As I understand it, you've done a great deal. Edith's actions might never have come to light if you hadn't pursued the issue so relentlessly."

He frowned. "I'm still not convinced you're safe," he said. "We don't have a satisfactory explanation for how he found your room. I'm not sure I could live in a house where you might not be properly protected."

"When you're not there waving a sword around, you mean," she said.

He closed his eyes, his smile pained, and then opened them. "There's so little I can offer you," he said quietly.

She frowned. "Don't talk such nonsense," she said, and then her voice softened and she touched his cheek. "I don't think you understand how much you've given me."

He blinked and frowned at her.

She swallowed, drawing her hand away, and looked down at the buttons on his waistcoat for a long moment without really seeing them. Then she said, "You set aside your plans for me today. You said I was 'more important'." She swallowed and pressed her lips together, then drew in a deep breath and lifted her eyes to meet his. "No man has ever said that to me before. Certainly not Papa, and I never expected it of any of my suitors. But you said it." She smiled through the stinging in her eyes and she reached up to cup his face, drawing her thumb briefly across his cheek. "You say such... _things_  all the time." She frowned and looked past him a moment, then met his eyes again, which were now damp. He blinked and she looked away from their intensity. She sighed, giving in. "It hurt more than I expected to see that Sybil knew what I'd done."

"What was done  _to_  you," Matthew said, his voice rough.

Mary took her hand away from his face, shaking her head dismissively. "I was no longer her perfect older sister, admired and respected and envied."

Matthew gave a soft laugh. "I think you'll find that Sybil never really held you up on such a high pedestal, darling."

Mary smiled. "Perhaps not, but it was the end—of our childhood." She frowned, not sure whether her words made sense, but when she saw Matthew give a nod in her peripheral vision, she pressed on. She let her eyes take in the far woods as she spoke. "In a way, it was the same with Edith: our childish squabbles have graduated into something far more serious."

The simmering anger in Mary's chest coiled and uncoiled, endlessly searching for an outlet. She felt a strange sort of pleasure that she was quite sure she ought not to, but a tinge of righteous anger came with it and dulled the doubts. If Edith thought she could best Mary, Edith was sorely mistaken. Edith had never been able to match wits with Mary, instead preferring to continually poke Mary with a dull, but heavy, blade. Edith would have no footing left when Mary had finished putting her in her place.

When Mary returned her gaze to Matthew, she saw that he was frowning as he watched her.

"Let it pass," he said.

Mary frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

"Edith," he said. "She'll bear her shame and it won't be forgotten."

Mary nodded and looked away.

"I mean it," he said. "Let this be the end of your battle with her."

Mary frowned at him. "What business is it of yours? She is  _my_  sister and I will answer her as I see fit."

He sat up, taking her hands. "No. Mary, you need to forgive her."

She pulled her hands away and stood up, hating his righteousness. She took several steps away, unable to give him the answer she wanted to, because her words would only condemn her further. The coiling anger inside of her was demanding release so fiercely that her chest burned with it.  _NO._ She would not— _could not_ —forgive Edith.

Matthew had risen and she knew he was standing silently behind her. She felt his eyes boring into her back, between her shoulder blades, and she crossed her arms and lifted her chin to rid herself of the sensation. It didn't work.

After a long moment, he drew up behind her and put his hands gently—ever so gently—on her upper arms.

"You are not done with this whole business," he murmured, and then he placed a light, soft kiss on the side of her neck, surprising her. She flung her hand up to cover her mouth as a sob suddenly wracked her. Damn his tenderness. It threatened to shatter her carefully-constructed walls. His hands squeezed her arms briefly. "Forgive her for your own sake, Mary," he said. "Not for hers."

She turned in his arms, anger and—she didn't know what—warring within her, and she looked at him. It wasn't pity that she saw in his expression, but rather a fierce love, sharp and correcting.

"I can't," she said. "I  _won't_."

"Then you will never be done with this business," he said. "You'll never be free of it."

"You make it sound so  _easy_ ," she snapped. "It's not."

"I'm not claiming it's easy," he said. "It may be the hardest thing you'll ever do. But it's worth it. I know. Trust me."

She glared at him, then frowned, then looked at his collar, his tie, his waistcoat, the light fabric of his suit jacket. She pressed her forehead against his lapel and squeezed her eyes shut.  _NO!_  her heart shouted.  _No. I won't do it._

But she stood in the shade of the tree, felt the warm breeze blowing over her, and let him rub her shoulders in slow circles as they stood together under the grey sky.


	10. Chapter 10

_10_

**4 August 1914**

_You don't want to marry her, Sir Anthony, she's a vindictive witch._

Mary smirked. Too transparent.

_You're old and boring. Edith is young and boring. Are you certain that this marriage is quite the thing?_

No. But: boredom. Hmm.

"Edith thinks you're an old bore," Mary murmured, watching her sister talking with guests and looking anxious. "She was going on about how ridiculous it would be to marry you…making us all laugh…"

From Mary's vantage point within the library, she could see all the guests arriving for the garden party and she was waiting to greet one in particular. She treasured the feeling of imminent satisfaction. Edith had raised the stakes and Mary was more than capable of meeting her and beating her—

"Oh, there you are."

Mary gave a start and turned, one hand pressed to her chest. "Matthew! You startled me."

He smiled as he approached her. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realised you were deep in thought. Why are you hiding in the library?"

Mary shrugged and turned back to look out the window, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "Gathering myself before I face the crowd, I suppose."

"Gathering yourself? Whatever for? I thought this was your mother's project."

"Oh, it is. But there are standards to keep up and I promised her I would stand in for her when she needs to rest."

"Well, you make it look effortless," Matthew said with a smile. "You presided over the flower show this year with nearly as much aplomb as Cousin Violet."

She smirked, recalling her grandmother's continuing conflict with Cousin Isobel over whose roses deserved the prize. "Thank you."

He turned back towards the door. "Mother asked me to carry in a chest: it's her contribution to the tombola. Will you wait for me here?"

She frowned. "Why don't you have one of the servants help her?"

"I'm perfectly capable of lifting heavy things," Matthew said with a grin. "Besides, they've got a party to manage, and she can't wait. She wants to fix up the chest in some fashion before it's put on display. She's with Carson now."

Mary smiled.

"So you'll wait for me?" Matthew asked. "If Robert makes good on his threat, I don't want to be caught out alone."

"Oh, he wouldn't do it without putting us on display together first."

Matthew chuckled and went back the way he'd come. "True. Five minutes?"

Mary nodded, then turned back to the window. "Damn," she muttered under breath. She'd missed her opportunity.

_But what would Matthew have done if she'd gone through with it?_

She pushed aside her discomfort with a frown and moved over to the door to better see where Edith and Sir Anthony had gone.

* * *

Edith stood miserably to the side, watching the guests arrive and greet one another and her parents. There was only one person that she really wished to see, but after everything that had happened, she didn't expect he would want to come today. Or ever again. She fought back the familiar flood of anger and sadness and forced herself to put on a contented face. She spotted Frankie Napier arriving alone, wondered idly where her brother was, and approached her with a smile.

"Frankie, how nice to see you!" Edith said.

"Edith, dear," Frankie replied, briefly giving Edith her hand. "I so missed you all when you left Town, but you especially."

"Really?" Edith asked, a bit taken aback, but pleased to be noticed.

"Of course," Frankie said. "Your conversation is intelligent and you aren't obsessed with fashion, which I find so tiresome. It's always changing and almost never comfortable."

Edith laughed, then covered her mouth and glanced about, hoping no one had seen her lose her composure. Her mother was greeting some guests, her grandmother was darting looks of disapproval at others, and Mary was nowhere to be seen. Perfect.

"You must be tired after your trip," she said, inclining her head towards the drinks tent. "Come freshen up a bit."

"Oh, that sounds heavenly," Frankie said, quickly following her into the shade of a great cedar as they walked towards the tent. Frankie lowered her parasol with a sigh of relief and closed it up.

"So where is Mr Napier?" Edith asked, not actually all that interested in his whereabouts, but wanting to make conversation.

Frankie waved her hand. "Evelyn's caught up in some urgent business; he left for London before breakfast this morning and sends his regrets."

"Urgent business?" Edith asked. "I don't mean to pry—I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's not a family matter," Frankie said with an easy smile. "It was something to do with the Foreign Office. All the men are on high alert, ready to be called in at a moment's notice."

Edith nodded. "With the assassination of the Austrian archduke and his wife, everything must be tense right now."

Frankie gave her an approving look. "A woman who reads the papers! I knew you were a keen sort."

Edith glowed at this praise. "I don't know why one  _wouldn't_  show an interest in the goings-on of the world. Wealth won't protect us from being affected by war if it comes. And it shouldn't be able to. Sometimes I think we are too sheltered from the common concerns of the day. I don't like feeling disengaged from the lives of the people around us."

"Nor I," Frankie said as they reached the tent. She stopped to pay her respects to Lady Grantham and then Edith caught Thomas's eye and beckoned to him.

"My lady, Miss Napier." Thomas gave them a respectful nod and just the hint of a smile. "Would you care for some lemonade?"

"Very much," Frankie said, smiling politely at him as she and Edith took their drinks.

"I do love a cool lemonade on a day like this," Edith said, taking a contented sip as Thomas bowed and strode off.

They turned to look out on the lawn, admiring their surroundings. It really did set the house off in the best light, this sort of late-summer weather, Edith thought, and then she smiled at the idea that, even with Mary's success at snaring Matthew, her sister might never be able to call all of this her own. Time would tell.

"Frankie!"

Edith looked up to see Sybil walking quickly towards them, Amelia Etherley in tow.

Frankie grinned and lifted her hand. "Sybil! What a lovely smock!"

Edith smirked into her teacup.

Sybil glanced down at herself as she approached, half-breathless. Edith disapproved of her state, but had to admit that she did look quite nice in the smock.

"Oh, thank you," Sybil glanced down. "It's from last year, but I do so love the pattern and the fabric is so light! I like the rosettes on your hat."

"Thank you," Frankie smiled.

"Is that a rooster hackle feather on your hat?" Edith asked Amelia.

Amelia glanced upward with a frown. "I don't know. I suppose. I just thought it went nicely with the blue ribbon."

"Mr Pyle is just arrived," Sybil said, nodding towards a young man who was striding across the lawn, past the musicians. Amelia turned to glance at him and then gave Sybil a significant look.

"What's this?" Edith asked.

Amelia blushed. Sybil smiled and said, "Oh, nothing."

"He does seem a rather nice sort," Frankie observed, taking another sip of lemonade.

"He's our vicar's son," Amelia said. "He's quite interested in the hospital, you know."

"Really?" Edith said. "Does he plan to study for his physician's licence?"

"I expect so," Amelia said. "Dr Clarkson has been very kind in his letters, giving him advice and answering his questions." She glanced at Sybil. "It must be nice to have a local doctor who's so well-liked."

"I wish ours was," Frankie said.

Branson suddenly appeared at Sybil's elbow and she turned to look at him.

"I've got news, my lady!" he said with a grin.

Shockingly, he leaned in and whispered in Sybil's ear. She suddenly grew excited and pushed past Edith, running off towards the servants' tent with him in tow. Edith frowned after them. What was that all about?

"Was that the chauffeur?" Frankie asked.

"Yes," Edith said, watching them disappear from view.

"What was that all about?" Amelia asked.

Edith shrugged. "How should I know? Sybil's always got some scheme or other in the making."

"With the chauffeur?" Frankie asked, half-smiling, half-frowning. They heard a sudden swell of excited squealing in the distance and Edith shook her head with a sigh.

"You know Sybil, barely more than a child," Edith said dryly.

"I like her exuberance," Frankie said.

"Lady Sybil is so kind," Amelia said. "She's been a faithful friend to me for years."

"Oh! How did you meet?" Frankie asked.

As Amelia began recounting their childhood acquaintance, Edith glanced away, quickly losing interest in the conversation. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw a familiar tall figure stepping out of an equally-familiar Rolls Royce. With barely a pause and a nod to Frankie and Amelia, Edith hurried across the lawn towards Sir Anthony—slowing, of course, to appear as though she were not over-eager to see him. Her heart gave a leap when she saw his eyes raking the grounds for something and then lighting up when he saw her.

"Lady Edith," he said with a warm smile, looking down at her as she drew up beside him.

"Sir Anthony! How good of you to come!"

"I wouldn't miss it!" he said. "How are you?"

Edith thrilled to the tips of her toes and smiled. "On this lovely day? With you finally arrived? How could I be anything but happy?"

A wide smile stretched across his face, wrinkling the skin around his eyes, and she couldn't help smiling back. He really was so very handsome.

"And how are you?" she asked.

"Very well, thank you. I was wondering: might you have a moment to speak privately?" He glanced up, looking about the party. "I must greet your parents, but then…?"

"Of course," she said. Her heart was pounding in her chest, despite their leisurely stroll across the lawn to where her mother was greeting guests. Her father was striding towards them.

"Sir Anthony!" he said, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder. "So good of you to come."

"I wouldn't miss it," Sir Anthony said, and glanced at Edith with a smile. "It seemed a perfect day for a picnic."

"It is that; the weather couldn't have been better if we'd ordered it from God himself!" Robert said with a smile.

"Sir Anthony, thank you for coming," Cora said. "I do appreciate your interest in the hospital."

"Of course," he replied. "It is such an essential service to the community and we really ought to do all we can to support Dr Clarkson."

"I agree!" Cora said. "I knew you would understand the urgency of the situation."

"I had not realised that the day rooms were in such need of repair," Sir Anthony said. "And it is shocking how little of it is wired for electricity! I would have thought the hospital the first priority for such an improvement."

"Yes, well, it's a good deal of work and Clarkson assured us that they are quite well able to manage with the parts that are lit," Robert said. "It's not usually in full use, you know. I'm afraid that my father was far more generous than necessary in that instance."

"But with the possibility of a war imminent," Sir Anthony said, "updating the facilities is of the utmost importance. We may have need of the whole place and, sadly, too soon."

"That is  _precisely_  what I have been saying, Sir Anthony!" Cora said with a smile, shooting a look at Robert, and then she turned away to greet another pair of guests who were just arriving. A moment later, Robert was also occupied with them, and Sir Anthony returned his attention to Edith. She smiled up at him.

"Is now a good time?" he asked her.

"The best," she answered, and he smiled. "Let's just go this way." She gestured towards a nearby stand of trees. "Do you mind a bit of shade?"

"That would be perfect," he said.

They came to a stop under a large beech, the sound of the party behind them suitably faded.

"How's this?" she managed to ask in a cheerful voice, but her chest felt tight and she wasn't sure whether she should expect to cry or rejoice. Everything hinged on this one moment with him. Would he ask what she hoped he'd been hinting at? Or would he reject her for what he had learned about her? Or had she terribly misunderstood his intentions to begin with? But surely not, if he wanted a private word with her! She swallowed and smoothed her dress and suddenly couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes.

Sir Anthony made an approving sound. He had taken off his hat and now stood twisting the brim in his hands. She forced herself to raise her head and look up at him, dreading what she might see there even as she was desperately hopeful for it.

"Lady Edith," he began, and then licked his lips and gave her a tentative smile. She smiled back in encouragement. He straightened and let his hat fall to his side, held in one hand. With his other hand, he reached out and took one of hers. Her heart leapt up into her throat and she looked back up at him with wide eyes.

"I think you know what I want to ask you," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But your father has given me to understand—" Her heart fell. "—that this might not be the best timing."

"But—" she tried to protest, but he squeezed her hand and smiled.

"I'm not offended," he said. "In fact, I think quite highly of you for it."

"You…you do?"

"It's so very thoughtful of you, to put your sister's happiness above your own," he said.

"My sister…"

"Just know that I will look forward to her wedding reception very much." Now his eyes crinkled in a deep smile and he ran his thumb over the back of her hand. She felt as warm as she was confused.

"Sir Anthony," she said, trying to gather her wits and madly wondering what her father had told him.

"Call me 'Anthony'," he said, moving half a step closer to her. "It would please me immensely, at least when we are alone—" he coloured, "—together, even if it can't be permitted in public yet."

Edith swallowed and smiled up at him. "Anthony." Gracious, how lovely that felt to say. Her smile warmed. "Thank you. You may call me 'Edith.'"

"Edith," he repeated, and she loved the warmth in his eyes as he said her name. Suddenly she wished most fervently for Mary and Matthew's wedding reception as well, as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

"I hope you know what my answer will be," she said.

"I think I do, and it will put a smile on my face every morning," he said. "You've no idea how much joy you've brought me."

"Only half so much as you've brought me, I assure you," she said, taking the liberty of pressing his hand.

"I shall take no such assurance," he replied. "But I am very glad to hear it."

They stood smiling at one another for a long moment and then he gently released her hand. He lifted his hat and nodded his head back towards the milling party guests.

"We ought to return to the party, I suppose," he said. "I shouldn't like anyone to think I'm taking liberties with you in the shrubbery."

She blushed. He'd never spoken so boldly to her before, but she loved to hear it. She was eager to know more of him, eager to see just how bold he might be with her. She felt a fluttering of anticipation in her belly and she pressed her smiling lips together as she tried to compose herself.

"I suppose," she said, after a moment. "Although I must admit that I don't mind the thought of that as much as you seem to."

He chuckled and something glittered in his eyes. Then he glanced towards the party, donning his hat with a nod. Edith followed his gaze and saw Mary watching them with sharp eyes. Edith lifted her chin and smiled up at him as he turned back to her.

"I must speak with Dr Clarkson about his ideas for improvements to the hospital," Anthony said. "It really is most urgent."

They walked back across the distance to the drinks tent, glancing at each other once or twice, and then he doffed his hat with a brief smile before breaking off to find the doctor. Edith stood watching him go, admiring his tall figure as he moved smoothly amongst the other guests. Let Mary think him old; Anthony was still strong and graceful, with the energy of a much younger man, but the maturity to turn his attention to things that truly mattered. Edith was disappointed that he hadn't proposed, but then he  _almost_  had, thanks to her father. That was something to turn her attention to. What exactly had her father said to Anthony, and why had it been so flattering to her? That was distinctly  _not_  what she'd been expecting, but then her mother's words echoed in her mind:  _We protect one another: that is what being a family means…_

"You're to be congratulated, I suppose," a familiar and entirely unwelcome voice said at her elbow.

She straightened and exhaled deliberately. "Actually, I'm not."

"Oh, did you hear something that wasn't there? I do hope you haven't put him off with your subtle air of desperation."

Edith turned on Mary then. "I'll have you know that we plan to wait until after your wedding to make our announcement."

Mary frowned. "Why? That's weeks away. I would have thought you eager to—"

"Not everyone is as selfish as you are, Mary," Edith snapped, and stalked away.

Mary stood looking after her with a frown.

"What was that all about?" Matthew asked, coming to stand beside her.

Mary sighed and shrugged. "Edith being Edith."

"I thought you said you'd wait for me in the library."

Mary looked towards Edith's retreating form. "Something came up."

"Are you sure there's nothing going on?" Matthew asked.

"Nothing worth bothering you with," Mary replied.

"She's not still harassing you over the letter, is she?"

Mary frowned and turned to him. "No…quite the opposite, in fact."

"Really? What did she say?"

Mary sighed and quirked a smile at him. "You're like a hound with a bone in his teeth."

Matthew grinned. "Well, if you weren't such a treat—"

"Edith and Sir Anthony are engaged in all but name and have decided to put off the announcement until after our wedding, so as not to steal the attention from us."

Matthew raised his eyebrows and looked appreciatively in Edith's direction, then glanced behind Mary—at Sir Anthony, she presumed—before returning to her. "I hadn't realised that his intentions were so serious."

Mary smirked. "But her intentions were rather more obvious."

Matthew chuckled. "They seem a good match."

"Oh, they are. The Tweedledum and Tweedledee of modern farming methods. I suppose one good bore deserves another."

"Mary."

She sighed and gave him a smile. "I find it far too easy to forget myself with you." She frowned. "Why is that?"

"Because you know I won't reprimand you for it?"

"I know nothing of the sort," she said. "You're always giving me looks and saying my name in a disapproving fashion."

"Not  _always_ ," he said with a slight frown.

"Often enough."

He looked at her a moment. "Does it bother you?"

She smiled at him. "Not really. Do you truly want to know why I forget myself around you?"

"Because you know it won't put me off?"

"Heaven forfend. No. It's because I know you agree. You're just too good to admit it out loud."

He laughed. "You know me too well."

"Come, you two lovebirds, you mustn't spend the whole party entertaining yourselves," Cora said, suddenly appearing between them. "Mingle with the guests! Tell them about how much good the hospital has done for the community."

"It's a  _hospital_ , Mama. I'm sure they can imagine its value well enough on their own," Mary said. "The invitations were lovely and the donations basket and tombola prizes are prominently displayed; surely everyone has gotten the hint by now."

"Do you know where Cousin Isobel might be?" Cora asked Matthew. "I'm anxious to have her speak with Lady Grinstead about the state of the day rooms."

Matthew glanced about. "She was just by here…" he said, then nodded towards the drinks tent. "She's with Cousin Violet." Cora made a pleased sound and moved away in that direction. Matthew suddenly frowned and tilted his head in a questioning fashion, and Mary followed his gaze. Isobel was turning back to say something to Granny, who was gesturing at a large chest. "She wants me to come back," he said. "Sorry; I'll just be a moment."

Mary smiled and watched him leave, then spied her Aunt Rosamund striding in her direction. She sighed inwardly as she put a smile on her face.

"Aunt Rosamund. How nice to see you!" she said with practised ease.

"Mary, dear," Aunt Rosamund greeted her with a light embrace.

"Your trip was pleasant, I trust?"

"It was fine, but enough about that. Why didn't you answer my telegram?"

"I did answer your telegram."

Aunt Rosamund gave her a look. "You told me when Mead was to expect a delivery, and how many crates of food were in the shipment."

"Well, you  _did_  ask Papa to send you some."

"I don't see how you can go through with this, Mary. It's ridiculous. If it's a boy, where will you live? Will he drag you back to Manchester? I don't think you'd like it there; it's quite smelly. Marmaduke owned several factories there, but even he sent his agents to see to them."

Mary smiled. "We're still discussing our living arrangements."

Aunt Rosamund snorted. "I'm sure. But he's a man, you know."

"I am aware," Mary said dryly.

Aunt Rosamund continued, undaunted: "No matter how reasonable he might seem now, once you're married he'll want to be master of his own home and you'll be expected to come along without protest. Of all of you, Sybil might find joy in a cottage. But not you."

"We don't know if it'll be a boy."

"Exactly. Enough with this October nonsense. Ask Matthew to wait until the child is born. If it's a girl you can wed him happily, and all will be as it was before. Then you can prevail upon him to stay nearby, at least."

Mary frowned. "I can't do that! That's not how we are together."

"Really, Mary!" Aunt Rosamund said. "You're a Lady and well within your rights to make such a request. If he isn't willing to hear you out now, what makes you think he'll be at all inclined to do so after you're married?"

"It's not that he won't let me ask, Aunt Rosamund," Mary said, straightening. "But if I delay, won't he think I'm only after him for his position? Besides, I don't want to put him off, even without the title. We get on so well, you know. And he's terribly clever. He might end up Lord Chancellor."

"And he might not," Aunt Rosamund snapped. "Oh, come along, Mary, be sensible. Can you really see yourself dawdling your life away as the wife of a country solicitor?"

Mary thought of Matthew's muddy trousers and smiled. "Easily."

Aunt Rosamund narrowed her eyes for a moment and then she gave a huff. "I don't know you any longer. You've changed."

Mary paused and regarded her. "I suppose I have," she said, lifting her chin, her smile undaunted.

Her aunt glared past her. Aunt Rosamund's mouth was tight with annoyance, but then she sighed and her eyes softened as she returned them to Mary. "If he is truly worth giving it all up for, you're an extremely lucky woman. I've not met a man yet who would be worth the inconvenience."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Before Matthew, I would have been in complete agreement."

"And Robert and Mama like him," Aunt Rosamund muttered. "That's no small achievement."

"Even  _you_  like him," Mary said. "You told me he was charming at Sybil's ball."

"He's charming enough, of course, but Mary, I don't want to see you unhappy. This is the only life you've ever known: could you be happy with a vast deal less? He's just a man; the charm wears off, and then what do you have? I  _know_  you can do better. You have so much potential!"

"But not many prospects, Aunt Rosamund," Mary reminded her gently. "You saw the invitations—or the lack of them."

Aunt Rosamund pursed her lips in annoyance. "The old families aren't the only ones that count these days, you know. The world is changing. In fact, Sir Richard Carlisle—Matthew! How lovely to see you again."

Matthew reappeared at Mary's elbow with a grin and a doff of his hat. "Lady Rosamund."

Mary gave a quiet sigh of relief and glanced around, losing interest in the exchange of pleasantries. She frowned; her mother was lowering herself into her chaise lounge, looking a little tired. "Excuse me," Mary murmured, and started to walk towards her. Mary was pleased to see O'Brien quickly approaching with a light throw.

"I wish you'd come inside, my lady," O'Brien said as Mary neared. O'Brien laid the throw blanket over her mistress's legs.

"You ought to rest a bit," Mary said, and O'Brien looked at her with approval.

"No," Cora replied. "People mustn't think I'm ill. I don't want to cast a dampener on the party. I'll just sit for a short while."

"Very well," O'Brien said. "But are you sure you have everything you need, my lady?"

Cora smiled up at the maid. "Dear O'Brien. How sweet you are."

O'Brien nodded and then straightened. With a final glance, she moved away again.

Mary heard her grandmother calling and she glanced back at her.

"O'Brien, O'Brien! Can I have a word? I need a favour and I don't want to bother Lady Grantham with it."

Mary turned back to her mother, pulling up a chair and taking a seat beside her. "Truly, Mama, are you well? Is there anything I can get you? A lemonade, perhaps?"

Cora smiled up at her and rested a light hand on her knee. "Thank you, my dear. That would be lovely."

Mary smiled back and was filled with a sudden strange discomfort. Her mother seemed paler than usual, she thought. She rose, pushing aside the familiar small stabs of fear, and went looking for a footman. William was moving amongst the guests nearby, his tray of cups almost empty.

When she turned back with a cup in hand, she saw that her father and Matthew had come to stand beside her mother and she steeled herself, knowing that now was the moment. Her father was bending solicitously over her mother, who gave him her hand to hold.

"Your lemonade, Mama," Mary said, holding out the cup as she neared. Cora's face creased in a tired smile and she reached up to take it with her free hand.

"Thank you, Mary."

"Should I wait until you're feeling better to make the announcements?" Robert asked. "I told Carson not to serve the food until after I do it."

"No, of course you must make the announcements now," Cora said, and she took a sip of her lemonade. "I'll just come stand beside you and then sit back down afterwards. People are already staring at us strangely."

"Never mind them," Robert said. "Are you quite well enough, my dear?"

"It's just a little fatigue; it will pass."

"I just don't want you to overtax yourself," he said.

"I won't," Cora answered, steel coming into her voice as she gathered her resolve. Mary picked up the throw and Matthew took the lemonade and she shot them both a grateful look, then allowed Robert to help her to her feet. She smoothed out her dress with one hand as she settled the other comfortably into the crook of his elbow. They strode out of the tent and into the sunshine, Mary and Matthew trailing behind.

"My lady, Mr Crawley," a voice said softly behind them and they turned. It was Bates, his cane leaning against his hip, his hands outstretched to take the cup and blanket. Mary and Matthew smiled at him and handed them over. Bates gave them a nod and they glanced at one another as they turned back. Matthew extended his elbow.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Mary smiled and tucked her hand under his arm. They went to stand beside her parents, who smiled at them as they took their place.

Robert straightened. "If I may have your attention, please?" he called out, and waited for the disparate murmurs of conversation to cease. He looked around with a proud smile. "Thank you. My lords, ladies, and gentlemen: thank you for coming today in support of the Downton Cottage Hospital and its Improvements Fund. I think we are all aware of how important the service it provides is to our community and the need for it to be made ready for any eventuality."

There was a sober pause in the crowd and then he continued: "But I'd also like to take this opportunity to make an official announcement. Two, actually." He beamed and turned to glance at his wife. "This may be old news to some of you, but my dear wife Cora is expecting another child!" A smattering of happy sounds and well-wishes erupted and he waited for it to subside, still smiling. "Also, some of you may have seen the recent announcement in  _The Times_ , but I would like to formally announce the engagement of my daughter, Lady Mary Crawley, to my heir, Mr Matthew Crawley!"

Robert beamed at them and Mary lifted her chin, giving him a small smile back. For how much longer would he be able to introduce Matthew as his heir? In some strange way, the potential rejection of Matthew felt like a double rejection of her, even as she knew it wasn't intentional on her father's part and she knew that Matthew wouldn't mind being free of the responsibility to follow her father. Aunt Rosamund was ultimately correct in her frank characterisation of the choice Mary was making, however. Mary was willing to give up a great deal for Matthew, but she couldn't help thinking that she was getting a far better prospect in return. Not perfection by any means, but what  _would_  be perfect? Vast wealth, a title, a position in Society? Marriage to a man who appreciated her for her pedigree but little else? No. What Matthew offered was a life built on what she herself brought to it: what she thought and valued, what she wanted and believed in, who she chose to be. Someone who was worthy of his love.

She was certain that she would never be bored by his company, or unable to talk or relate to him. There was something about the way he constantly challenged her that made her feel more alive. That feeling was not, as Aunt Rosamund had implied, based on Matthew's charm or his willingness to placate her.  _That's not how we are together_ , Mary had said, and she was coming to better understand the truth of that statement.

She watched the polite smattering of applause die down and then let her smile widen in genuine happiness as the crowd descended on them to offer their best wishes.

* * *

"What is she  _thinking_?" Rosamund asked.

"It's the best offer she's ever likely to get," Violet said.

Isobel, who had come to stand on Violet's other side as they watched the crowd close in, made a pleased sound. "And the only one he's ever wanted to make," she said. "To be honest, I had begun to despair about him: nearly thirty and no one had ever taken his interest. I thought his standards must be unreasonable."

Rosamund sniffed. "What, he was waiting to marry into the aristocracy?"

"Don't be crass," Violet said.

"Certainly not!" Isobel replied. "He couldn't care less for titles and wealth."

Rosamund shot her a look of disbelief. "Every man cares for titles and wealth."

"Not my Matthew," Isobel said proudly.

Violet looked heavenward.

"So if it wasn't class and privilege, what was he waiting for?" Rosamund asked with a smirk. "Moral rectitude?"

"Rosamund!" Violet said, and shot her daughter a significant, quelling look. Rosamund frowned at her, uncomprehending.

"Of course," Isobel replied, catching the exchange. "What truly matters, if not a person's character?"

Rosamund exchanged another glance with Violet, now in understanding.

"Of course Mary isn't perfect," Isobel went on. "But neither is Matthew. And what happened with that Turkish diplomat wasn't Mary's fault."

The other two women looked at her.

"You knew about that?" Violet asked sharply. "How?"

"Matthew told me."

Violet smiled.

"Wait—are you telling me that  _he_  knows about it, too? And he's still willing to marry her?" Rosamund asked, moving half a step forward to look at Isobel in shock.

"You must live in a terribly closed world, Lady Rosamund, if that surprises you," Isobel said. "Mary isn't the first woman to find herself in this unfortunate situation. Far from it. And if you expect  _my son_  to consider it a failure of her character, then I pity you for knowing only men of such low quality on which to base your expectations."

Rosamund's mouth opened and closed. Violet turned to look at Isobel for a long moment and Isobel looked back. No words were exchanged, but something passed quietly between them.

The three women returned to watching the two couples receive congratulations.

"He really  _is_  worth it," Rosamund murmured.

* * *

"It's too bad that we can't take a turn here," Matthew observed with a smile, when Mary approached him some time later.

Mary smiled and turned to survey the milling party guests. "Dancing on the lawn just isn't the done thing, darling."

"But what were such a lovely day, music, and healthy bodies created for, if not to enjoy them all together?"

"I am tempted, I'll admit," Mary said. "Perhaps later, after all the guests have gone? We might go down to the lake and enjoy the view."

"That's brilliant, darling. Let's do that," he answered softly, his light blue eyes sparkling at her in the full sunlight, and she smiled at the sight. Their unusual shade seemed a fitting match for their unusual owner.

"Actually," she glanced behind her, "I'd just as well not wait." She grinned and took his hand. "Come, before someone spots us."

He chuckled and offered up no protest, moving quickly to fall into step beside her. Their footsteps caught and they stiffened as they heard her father suddenly shout.

"Please, will you stop, please!"

They broke apart and turned, but their guilt at being caught was quickly overshadowed by Robert's breathless words.

"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. Can I ask for silence?"

The musicians stopped their playing and into the eerie silence, Lord Grantham spoke.

"Because I very much regret to announce…that we are at war with Germany."

* * *

**5 August 1914**

"You're going to do  _what_?" Mary took a step back in shock. "But the wedding is in only a few weeks! Why can't you wait until—" She pressed her gloved hand to her mouth and stifled an unexpected sob. War had come; she knew it had; and yet for it to come so  _close_  so  _soon_! It didn't matter when he went,  _she didn't want him to go at all_. He might never—

She turned away, unable to look at him. Fears she'd never given thought to before, a horrible ripping feeling in her chest so terrible that it actually  _hurt_ , took her such by surprise that she couldn't form words. The soft rustling of the wind in the leaves over their heads was at odds with the sudden panic that swept over her.

He came up behind her and put his hands on her upper arms. "Mary—"

She shook her head and he stopped speaking, but the warm pressure of his hands remained.

"I'm sorry—" he tried again, and she spun in his arms, breaking his grasp on her.

" _Sorry?!_ " she cried, her hands now in fists at her side. "You're  _sorry?!_  Is that all you can say?"

His face was twisted in agony. He put out his hands again to hold her, but she glared at him and he let them fall back to his sides. The pain in her chest tightened and she looked away, fighting not to cry. It felt selfish of her to want to keep him to herself, but terribly wrong of him all the same.

"How can you be so eager to play soldier?" she demanded.

"I'm not!" he said, turning and pacing away a few agitated steps. He turned back. "Mary, you must understand: I'm not doing this because I  _want_  to! I'm doing this because I  _must!_ "

Her hands came up in a frustrated jerk. "You 'must'? It's still a volunteer army, to my knowledge! No one is expecting you to go! No one's forcing you into this!"

"My conscience is." He glanced at their surroundings. "How can I sit back and dine in  _splendor_  while men are dying?"

"Men die every day, Matthew!"

He stepped forward, his own hands now jerking in harsh gestures. "But not for my safety. Not for the safety of my family! I cannot just stay here and let other men fight and die in my place." He stopped moving. "My father did not shirk his duty and I cannot shirk mine. I thought you would understand."

"What is there to understand?" she cried. "Do you think it somehow better that you die in place of someone else? Is that to be my comfort for the rest of my days? That my fiancé died at war but at least he was honourable and fought?"

Matthew's eyes widened. "Mary, that's not fair."

" _Not fair?!_ " she spat. "And what is so  _fair_  about rushing off to play soldier with our wedding mere weeks away, Matthew?" She chopped the air with her hand as she spoke. "They say the whole thing may be done with by Christmas: why involve yourself now? Why not wait and see?"

He scowled. "That's the coward's excuse."

She scowled back at him. "No one thinks you're a coward. Why are you  _really_  doing this? Are you trying to prove that you can take up the mantle as well as any nobleman? That you can be the Earl of Grantham because you've led a battalion? Because I assure that that is  _entirely_  unnecessary!"

"I'm not trying to prove anything!" he said, raising his arms in frustration. "Haven't you been listening?"

"There is  _no shame_  in your staying home, Matthew," she said, pressing on. "We have a fine standing army and the most powerful navy in the world. What can one man do that would make a difference? Let the professional soldiers end it quickly and don't involve yourself. You're just a lawyer."

His eyes flashed at her. She turned away, gritting her teeth. Insulting his manhood would achieve nothing. She needed to take a different tack. She suddenly turned round again, her eyes wide and her face alight.

"If you just waited a few weeks, you'd be a newlywed. Isn't there something about not having to go to war within the first year of marriage?"

To her surprise, he gave a short laugh. "Yes, in the Bible."

"Well?" she raised her eyebrows and he frowned.

"This isn't antiquity, Mary; no one holds to that practice now."

"A shame," she snapped.

He gave her a chagrined look, but said nothing.

"How can you be so blasé about this?" she demanded. "Just announcing it and not asking for my input? If this is to be the pattern of our marriage, I'm not sure I want to marry you!"

He winced and stiffened; she couldn't resist kicking the ground with her heel before she turned and stalked several paces away. She put a hand to her forehead. Wounding him was automatic, but entirely unsatisfying. If only he weren't so damned honourable. She blinked back tears and scowled at the ground, dropping her hand. He was silent behind her.

Perhaps they should call it off and he should just go off to war unencumbered. If he cared  _so little_  for their future together, then she clearly was not as valued by him as she'd believed. What a fool she was, to have placed such hopes in a mere man, even one she'd thought so good a man as Matthew.

She squeezed her eyes shut. There was the rub. He  _was_  a good man, sometimes too good for sense. Hadn't he accepted her against all reasonable expectations?

She was angry with him, but the prospect of  _not_  becoming his wife terrified her. If he were to die in the war and they had parted on these terms, it would haunt her to the end of her days.

She tried to speak, but it came out as a choked sound instead and she just covered her face with her hands as stinging tears overflowed on to her cheeks. She could not check them, but she could hide them.  _Oh, why must he put her in such a position?_

She felt him come up behind her and at her sob, he moved quickly to face her. His arms came around her and he held her close.

"God, Mary, I'm so, so sorry!" he said, his voice a mere whisper.

She quieted her shudders and pulled back to wipe at her eyes. He released her. She sniffled and said sharply:

"Sorry about what, exactly?"

He gave her a grim smile. "Making it seem as though you have no voice in this decision."

She frowned at him. "Do I?"

"Yes," he said. "Mary, you have more influence over me than you realise. Sometimes I fear it."

"What? Why?"

"I've never been in love before, darling. I'm not entirely my own man anymore."

"And if I asked you to stay, you would?"

He closed his eyes and after a moment, nodded. "But it would eat at me. I'm not sure I wouldn't come to resent you for it." He opened his eyes. "I'm not proud of that. But it is the truth."

"Don't you think you ought to give this more thought? War was declared only yesterday!"

He sighed. "I know it appears to be a sudden decision, but I  _have_  been giving it a great deal of thought for several weeks now. It's been difficult to avoid, what with all the noise in the papers."

"And you never thought to mention it to me?"

"I never wanted to make it real by talking about it. Mary, the thought of leaving you has tortured me since the moment Robert made the announcement. I've gone through every possibility I could think of: various reasons to refuse, or delay, or apply for office work…"

"You would qualify for it," she said.

He smiled and shook his head. "But I would be a coward to pursue it. I know what I must do. How could I face you and claim to want to protect you, to protect any children we might have, and then merely sit back and let other men do the job?" He chuckled. "You found the only argument that I hadn't yet thought of: religious proscription. It might have worked if it weren't merely an Israelite custom, but also a Christian one."

Mary turned away and frowned angrily. She was in no mood for humour now.

"How can you laugh about this?" she asked, turning back to glare at him.

He closed his eyes. "I'm scared, Mary. I think you would like the alternative less."

 _I'm not particularly fond of the present, either_. "You're choosing to do this," she said, when he opened his eyes again. "Don't pretend otherwise."

He shook his head and looked away, a deep frown creasing his features.

She blinked back fresh tears. "If we can disagree over something as fundamental as this, then shouldn't we be brave and back away now?"

He swallowed and looked to the side, his eyes wet. "If you want to call it off, I'll understand."

Her heart squeezed and she narrowed her eyes. "You would choose war over me."

He met her gaze, a mixture of hurt and anger burning in his eyes.

" _No_ , Mary. That's what I'm trying to say. It doesn't have to be just one or the other. I can be an honourable man and be your husband, too."

"What of the wedding? Are you asking me to wait until the war ends?"

"No!" he said, then took her hands in his own. "Marry me now."

She met his eyes, surprised. "Are you mad? Not even Papa can obtain a special licence  _that_  quickly!"

"Tomorrow, then," he said with smirk, showing her that he knew full well that the day after would not suit either.

She fought down a smile and shook her head. How could he infuriate her and charm her all at once? "You  _are_  mad. I'll talk to Papa. But I expect it will be a week at least."

Matthew looked at her through eyes that were suddenly wet. "So you will?" he asked. "And you won't stop me going?"

She glared at him. "No," she said. "But I still want to beat you about the head until you come to your senses."

He looked down and laughed, then looked back up at her again, no humour in his eyes. He reached up to hold her cheek. "I don't want to leave you," he said in nearly a whisper.

"I'm struggling to believe that," she said, and he dropped his eyes from hers, his jaw working. His hand fell away from her cheek.

They stood in silence for a long moment and then she straightened.

"I'd best give Granny the bad news soon," Mary said, forcing herself to put on a lighter air. "She won't like having all her plans set to naught."

He smiled carefully and fell into step beside her as they left their spot under the tree and started towards the house.

"I suppose this makes the question of where we'll live moot," she observed dryly.

He smiled at her attempt to leave the unresolved argument behind them. "For now."

"I'm sure Mama and Papa would be happy to have you stay here when you're home on leave."

He nodded, but did not look enthusiastic at this prospect. She frowned at him.

"What? I thought we had agreed that my moving into Crawley House wouldn't suit."

"We did, and I still understand that. It's just—I expect we'll have so little time together, and I don't want to spend the whole of it with everyone else there."

Mary nodded. It was a familiar argument. They walked in silence for a moment.

"I thought perhaps one of the cottages?" he said. "If there is no one in need of one, of course."

They'd talked about this option before, but now it wasn't a permanent proposition. It would be strange to move into a cottage for what? A week or two at a time? She frowned as she considered the logistics and, of course, the appearance it would give. They would practically be shouting the personal details of their marriage to the world. She had never heard of a member of the family living in a tenant's cottage; it was sure to attract attention. She'd already told him all of this; staying at the house would be so much simpler.

But so much less private.

She sighed.

"In any case, we needn't decide now," he said.

"I suppose. Speaking of which, I must telephone Aunt Rosamund about our arrangements."

He looked pained. "We ought not to inconvenience her with so little warning," he said.

"I'm not staying in a cottage on our wedding night," Mary said.

He laughed. "I'm not asking you to. What would you say to Glendale House?"

She pursed her lips. "Isn't that being let?"

"No; our tenants left in July and I haven't put in the adverts yet." He looked rather shifty for a moment. "I'd wanted to preserve the possibility of us making use of it."

Mary was not thrilled at the prospect of moving to Matthew's house in Manchester permanently, at least not yet, but for a week or so, it might work well for them. Their time together after the wedding and before he left would be precious; she would not fight him over so short a span. She was confident that she would be able to sway him later, when the war was over.

"Won't there be work to open it? Can you do that with so little notice? I'd not thought you kept a housekeeper."

"We don't," he said. "A temporary cook should suffice, don't you think?"

"Won't it need to be aired, dusted?"

He smiled. "I don't expect that it's fallen into ruin in a mere month, but I'll speak to Mama. She'll be delighted, I'm sure, and she might even volunteer to make sure it's shipshape and Bristol fashion herself."

Mary tried to suppress a smile and failed. She could only imagine what effort Cousin Isobel would go to on their behalf. Mary looked up and saw William waiting within the entranceway, ready to open the door for them as they approached. She needed to speak with Anna. After she talked with Papa, of course, and she would need to speak with Mama and Granny today as well. Some of the arrangements could probably be put into place with only a week to plan, but all the guests would need to be contacted—everyone would understand the reason, if not the urgency, she supposed, and a smaller affair would not be unwelcome, not with Mama's condition—and then she needed to see to the dressmaker and the florist and Rev. Travis—

"I'll leave for Manchester tomorrow morning, at first light," Matthew said, rousing Mary from her thoughts. "I shall inquire about how soon I'm to be expected to report for training, given our circumstances. I plan to apply for a commission."

She paused and turned to him with a frown. "Why go all the way to Manchester for that? Can't you join up in Leeds? Or in Ripon? Aren't they establishing a training camp there?"

"They are, but…" He paused beside her and glanced up at the house. "Downton is lovely, but it's not my home, not yet at least."  _And it may never be._  "I'm a Mancunian born and bred. If I'm to fight, I belong with them."

She looked down and remained silent. She felt an ache at the prospect of her days at Downton being numbered, not to mention her days with Matthew, at least for the immediate future. She also felt a strange something awakening in her heart, something cautiously building whenever he talked of their life together away from her family. It was a small thrill of excitement, a growing anticipation of the world of possibilities that lay before them. She did not know what shape the world might take for them—although it would almost certainly be more challenging than what she was accustomed to—but the prospect of facing it with him made her smile deep inside.

She looked back up; those thoughts were for another day, and perhaps one that was far in the future, or one that might never come—

She gave him a tight smile and strode off the grass on to the gravel. His feet crunched on the drive as he walked beside her.

"Before we tell anyone, are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

She lifted her chin. "Yes."

She felt his hand on her arm and she paused and turned to him.

"We don't have to marry so quickly, you know," he said. "I'll wait until you're ready."

She wanted to kiss him to reassure him, but not with William watching. She glanced at the entrance to the house, where the footman was now standing outside, discreetly not looking their way but obviously still attentive to them. She looked down and took Matthew's hand, then met his eyes.

"Have you not been listening to a word I've said? We've waited three months already, Matthew." She smiled. "I would have married you the night you proposed, if I could have."

His eyebrows rose and a smile spread across his face. "Really?"

She looked down, realising that she had revealed more than she intended. His fingers tightened around hers and she felt him lean closer.

"Me too." His voice was a low rumble.

She glanced up at him and frowned. "After what you'd just learned about me?"

His smile was smug. "Of course. I learned a great deal about you that evening."

She smiled and looked away. "Don't make me blush."

He laughed. "It's too late."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye; he was still giving her that knowing smile.

"Well, then, don't make William blush: he's nearly within earshot."

Matthew just chuckled and glanced at William with a shake of his head. He looked back at her with something knowing in his eyes, and curled his fingers teasingly against her palm—giving her a sudden pleasant shiver—and then he smiled, releasing her hand.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing towards the house.

She nodded and fell into step beside him, her mind swirling with questions and possibilities. She never wanted to let Kemal come between her and Matthew, but it was impossible not to remember and wonder what Matthew would be like. She was sure no proper bride would have found herself with such a scandalous curiosity as she herself had. Lately, she'd caught herself envisioning such shocking things that she was sure Matthew would be put off and she hoped that he never discovered them. She was too embarrassed to put her thoughts into words, even to herself.

She wondered if it were Matthew himself prompting these thoughts or merely the fact that with her—admittedly limited—experience, there was more scope for her imagination and thus her baser desires were revealing themselves. She felt again that stab of fear that she was damaged goods, undeserving of Matthew's love and respect. She was not concerned about becoming his wife; she expected that the essentials of that transaction would be pleasant enough, since they got on so well together and his manner with her had always been gentle. She was sure, now that she knew something of what to expect, that he would be vastly different from Kemal, if the quality of Matthew's kisses were any indication, and she quite looked forward to being with him. She was just afraid that her own actions in response would betray her true nature, and that he would despise her if he ever discovered it.

But would he? He hadn't despised her when he'd learned of Kemal. And Matthew, for all his honour, was still a man. How many times had she met his gaze and been warmed by it, seeing in it, for each unguarded moment before he became polite again, a look of very real desire? Although his kisses were not as forceful as Kemal's had been, they were hardly cool or unfeeling. How much was he holding back from her because of his ideas of honour? Or was she merely inventing a hidden passion on his part to justify her own desires? Because she so wanted to— But she must not.

"Are you quite alright, my lady?" William asked, holding the door open with a look of concern.

Matthew's head snapped around to look at her and he touched her elbow. "Mary?"

She realised she'd covered her mouth with her hand and she quickly let it fall away with a tight smile and a shake of her head. "I'm fine; it's nothing. Really."

Matthew didn't look convinced as they stepped over the threshold and went into the great hall, but he let it pass, as her father was striding towards them. She put on a bright smile and straightened her shoulders. There were important matters to discuss.


	11. Chapter 11

_11_

Mary rested her head on Matthew's shoulder as the car trundled through the London streets towards Painswick House on Eaton Square. It had been a long day. A long week, really. The whirlwind of wedding preparations in the last few days had fallen largely upon Mary to manage, with Mama and Granny and Isobel to advise her, and she hadn't ceased moving since she'd risen this morning. First all the personal preparations, then the carriage ride through the village, the ceremony, the reception at the house—even with the smaller affair, there were still so many people to see—then weathering the tearful good-bye from Mama before finally taking the afternoon train to London. She had been unable to fall asleep during the trip, despite the privacy of their car and Matthew's encouragement, and now it was nearing the dinner hour.

Mary couldn't say that she was truly hungry, although she knew she ought to be; instead, she felt a strange sort of weary anticipation. She didn't really want to dress for dinner but there was nothing for it. The evening would play out as expected. She looked forward to finally being alone with Matthew after dinner and she knew what was to come, but what she wished for most was the moment when she could curl up in his arms, warm and content under the covers, and fall asleep.

The car jolted over a rough patch and she drew in a sharp breath and sat up. Matthew's hand squeezed hers, where she was resting her palm on his thigh, and she smiled and ran her thumb against his leg. He tilted his head to press a kiss against her lips and she acquiesced, lifting her mouth to meet his for a moment.

"We're nearly there," she sighed, returning her head to his shoulder.

"You're tired," he said.

She straightened. "I'm fine."

He chuckled. "Of course you are."

She gave him a look and he laughed and kissed her cheek.

"It's all right; I don't mind," he said. She shot him a look of disbelief, but he just smiled and looked ahead again. "I am too."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let Aunt Rosamund have her way. Manchester would have been so much easier for you," she said, giving his leg a fond caress.

He shrugged. "It was kind of her," he said. "And it does make some things much easier: we don't have to make arrangements for the house."

"Mm. Mead will have things well in hand," Mary said, smiling. "Besides, Aunt Rosamund loves any excuse to be back at Downton. I can understand that." She frowned.

Matthew looked at her. "You don't have to leave it yet."

"No, I know. It's just… It won't be the same anymore." She paused. "It's not the same without you." She looked at him in surprise. "When did that happen? When did Downton become less to me, somehow? It used to be everything…" She trailed off, frowning. "Pay me no attention, darling. I'm becoming a sap."

Matthew laughed. "Now that's a strange thought: Lady Mary Crawley, a sentimentalist."

She shot him a look and slapped her fingers against his thigh, briefly dislodging his hand. "I'm just tired; my defences must be down."

"Good."

She raised her eyebrows, but he just grinned at her in a way that made her want to smile back, so she looked away with a shake of her head. She saw her aunt's house come into view as the car turned a corner, and she made a sound of relief. Dusk was fast approaching over Belgravia; the sun would likely have set by the time they finished dinner. They would have this night together, undisturbed, and the next six days to do with as they wished. Matthew was to report for Army training on Thursday morning. It was far too brief a time, but Mary was determined to enjoy it, to enjoy him.

If everything went well and the papers were right, this war would be over by Christmas and she'd have him home to herself soon enough. Her new sibling would likely be born by then and they would know whether they were to stay at Downton or to strike out on their own. Perhaps Mary herself would be pregnant by then. She felt a small thrill at the thought of being able to hold her own child in her arms, to share such moments with Matthew. He would be a splendid father. Before him, she'd never had a particular desire for children, but she found that what she wanted was slowly changing. She wasn't desperate to be a mother any time soon, but she was no longer quite so indifferent to the prospect. It was a novel sensation. She smiled, happy. She was in the waiting room no longer.

The car pulled up to the kerb and she waited as Matthew stepped down and turned to give her a hand out. Mead was standing in the entryway and he gave them a slight bow as they came up the steps, Mary's hand resting in the crook of Matthew's elbow.

"Lady Mary, Mr Crawley," Mead said, standing aside as they crossed over the threshold. "Welcome. Dinner will be served in half an hour, if that will suit."

Matthew, who had been taking in the room, glanced at Mary.

"That will be fine, Mead, thank you," she said. Mead nodded and turned to the footman who was standing beside him. "James will show you to your rooms. Anna is waiting for you upstairs, Lady Mary. Shall I see to your bags?"

"I didn't bring any," Mary said.

"I have something in the boot, though," Matthew said.

"Very good, sir," Mead replied. "I'll have it sent up."

At Mary's nod, James went ahead of them up the staircase and Mary slipped her hand free of Matthew's arm to ascend the steps. She was shocked a moment later to feel his hand rest briefly on her bottom and she immediately twisted to look back at Mead and glance hurriedly about the foyer. If someone had seen! But there was no one there to do so: Mead had gone out to the car and the foyer was empty behind Matthew. She still shot him a look of intense censure, but he merely grinned. Feeling heat rise in her neck—not to mention tingling in the spot that his hand had touched—she turned stiffly back around and continued up the stairs, following the oblivious footman.

"This is your room, my lady," James said, gesturing to a door that was stood open. Anna appeared in the doorway a moment later with a wide smile on her face. Her uniform was different now: all black, indicating her new status as a lady's maid.

"How was your trip, my lady?"

"Good," Mary answered. "How did you and Molesley fare?"

Mary heard James and Matthew continue on down the hall behind her. "And this is your dressing room, sir," James said, before their voices faded out.

"No difficulties," Anna said, going into the room ahead of her. "Most of the gowns came through without needing much pressing."

Mary smiled. Of course Anna had done a first-rate job of packing her clothing.

"So how was the reception?" Anna asked, taking Mary's handbag and helping her out of her jacket.

Mary smiled. "Better than I was expecting, actually. My cheeks are still a bit sore from all that smiling."

Anna chuckled. "I'm so happy for you, my lady."

Mary smiled again and then sighed as she stepped out of her shoes.

"Is everything quite all right?" Anna asked.

"Yes, it's just been a long day, even if it has been good one. I confess that I'm more eager to sleep than to eat at the moment."

Anna giggled. "You'd better not tell Mr Matthew that."

Mary laughed. "He's tired, too."

The sceptical look Anna gave her made her laugh again, but then she sobered. She turned to allow Anna to unbutton the back of her blouse.

"Are you nervous?" Anna asked quietly.

Mary turned her head to speak over shoulder. "Oh...no. Not really."

"That's good," Anna replied. "I'm sure you've nothing to worry about."

Mary nodded, looking straight ahead again. The last few days had been a whirlwind of preparations, and now...now the moment that they'd been preparing for was nearly upon them. The beginning of the rest of their lives together.

She smiled over her shoulder again at Anna, who unfastened her skirt and knelt down, holding it open. Mary stepped out of it and turned around.

"Anna, I've been so pleased with your efforts these last few days. I'm certain that without your calm competence and keen eye for detail, today would not have gone off nearly as well as it had."

Anna smiled. "It was truly my pleasure, my lady."

Mary looked at the gown that Anna had hung beside the wardrobe. Mary had intended to have a new ensemble made for her honeymoon, but the dressmaker had not been able to finish the order with so little notice, understandably, and Mary had settled for selecting clothing from what she already owned. She knew that Matthew liked this gown, the cream-coloured one with the low back. She remembered the distinct sensation of his gaze on her when he'd come to explain about the entail. That was the night that she'd begun to see him not merely as an interloper, but as a person, a man with a kind face and a gentle manner. She smiled; she liked this dress too. She thought it set her dark hair and eyes in a good light.

Anna set about making her presentable for dinner. Mary wanted a minimum of fussing. It was only Matthew, after all, and she suspected that he would be perfectly content if she were to appear for dinner in a nightgown and slippers. She smirked to herself as Anna laced her up: he might actually prefer it. Then the thought struck her: the equivalent for him was…what? The idea of Matthew in pyjamas and a bathrobe brought to mind both the comfort of her father's presence when she'd had nightmares as a child and also the image of Kemal entering her room that night, sending both fear and arousal through her. She closed her eyes, forcing that image away. Not this night. This night was  _theirs_. She swallowed and opened her eyes again.

"There," Anna said, stepping back.

Mary turned to look at her. "Thank you, Anna," Mary said. "Truly. For everything."

"You're not quite finished yet, my lady," Anna said, clearly suppressing a smile. At Mary's look of confusion, Anna gestured past her towards the vanity. The necklace and earrings that went with the dress were laid out neatly there. Mary gave a self-deprecating laugh and sat and fastened them—Anna assisting with the necklace—and patted her hair. It was still in place, despite the day's travel, and she smiled. "I do believe I'm ready to go down now. Would you agree?"

Anna smiled. "You look lovely."

"I suppose I shall have to be content with that," Mary smiled, pleased with her reflection in the mirror, and rose to her feet. "You've done a first-rate job."

"Thank you, my lady. Will that be all?"

"Yes." Mary gave her a final nod and crossed the room to open the door, but she turned suddenly at the knock that came from behind her. She looked back at the door that must lead to Matthew's dressing room and paused. "Come," she said, willing her voice to be steady. She'd never once had a man enter her bedroom through the connecting door. Even her father only ever came through the main door. She had not thought of all the small ways in which her daily life would change, now that she was married. She'd known of this one, of course, but to face its reality…

The door opened and Matthew appeared, dressed in his tails and looking, as usual, just slightly uncomfortable in them. He smiled and she smiled back.

"You look marvellous," he said, his eyes travelling over her. "I've always liked that dress."

Anna slipped out of the room, moving past Mary through the half-opened door behind her.

Mary smiled. "I know."

"Really?" he asked, crossing the room to her.

"You've not exactly hidden your appreciation of it," she said dryly.

He chuckled and shook his head, running his hands down her gloved forearms. "And I thought I was doing so well." He lifted her hands and pressed a kiss to the back of each one before releasing them.

"Oh," she said, starting to feel as though she wasn't sure what the conversation was about any longer and not minding in the least. "You are…"

His smile made her feel warm and she met him eagerly when he moved in for a kiss. She wasn't supposed to, she thought. They were supposed to go downstairs and— She drew in a sharp breath when she felt his fingertips run across the bare skin on her back and she arched involuntarily against him. His light touch felt  _so good_ , more pleasurable than any touch she'd felt before, and this realisation surprised her. She had not expected to feel something  _new_. He hummed against her lips and she closed her eyes as they continued to kiss. After a moment, he pulled away slightly.

" _This_  is why I like this dress," he said, his voice a low rumble, and she shivered with pleasure at the sound. "I've wanted to do this since the first evening I saw you in it."

She laughed. "I'd  _wondered_  what you were thinking..."

He chuckled and bent to kiss her neck, his arms pulling her closer against him, and she moaned without meaning to. At this rate, they were never going to make it down to dinner, and she absolutely would not give Aunt Rosamund's servants any reason to take note of their behaviour. It was enough that the household knew this was their wedding night; Mary would not be their entertainment as well. She could not call what she and Matthew were doing shameful, exactly, not now. Oh God, not now… She so wanted to stay in this moment, shiver against her husband, run her hands over his— She pulled herself back.

"We must go down to dinner," she said, and nearly laughed at Matthew's answering groan.

"Must we?"

"You would put all of Molesley's efforts to naught?" she asked, extricating herself from Matthew's arms, as loathe as she was to do it.

"Gladly," he said with a grin, reaching for her again. She squirmed out of his grasp and shot him a quelling look. He sighed and straightened, tugging his waistcoat. He gave her a mocking demi-bow and gestured with an arm. "After you, darling."

She found that her earlier weariness had quite disappeared. Now, instead of merely wanting to fall asleep in his arms, she had the challenge of keeping her mind off the sudden urge to do something far different to him.  _Not this again_ , she thought. She would not let this night be sullied; she would do this properly and seek to not disappoint him. The first step in her plan was to go downstairs and take the opportunity to regain her equilibrium. They would eat a civilised dinner and then come back upstairs, change into their nightclothes, and proceed with the evening. She pulled open the door and went out into the hallway, Matthew close on her heels. She stiffened suddenly as she felt his fingertip run down her spine.

"Matthew!" she hissed, twisting and shooting him a look.

He raised his eyebrows, an expression of studied innocence on his face. His hands were at his sides as if they always had been. "Yes?"

She intensified her look of disapproval, but he merely smirked. Turning away, she strode quickly down the hall to descend the stairs, fighting the urge to push him against a wall and kiss him, hard. She heard his soft chuckle behind her and she pressed her lips together. He was not making this easy. His newfound, playful boldness beckoned to her, surprising and intriguing her and promising a great deal more. She wanted to repay him in kind, but this left her feeling conflicted. What was he expecting of her? She must be careful.

They entered the dining room and Mead indicated their seats. Dinner proceeded in proper fashion, with only the minimal conversation necessary as James and Mead offered them small trays of well-apportioned courses and kept their glasses filled. Mary resisted letting Matthew catch her eye throughout, for fear that if she did, she would lose her composure. They ate in silence for several minutes and then Matthew said:

"Lovely weather we're having, wouldn't you say?"

Mary raised her head and looked at him with wide eyes. He'd fixed a bland expression on his face, but his eyes were twinkling at her.

She couldn't very well tell him off with Mead watching, so she took a sip of her wine, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and said, "This morning was quite nice, but it seems likely to rain tonight."

It was no more likely to rain than to snow on this summer evening and Matthew knew that. He smiled and took another bite.

Mary returned to her meal, not wishing to be at odds with him, and cast about for a suitable topic of conversation. "I thought we might see a show," she said. "One of the new follies, perhaps?"

Matthew nodded. "Or we could visit the opera." He looked across at the butler. "Do you know what's being performed, Mead? Is the D'Oyly Carte Company in residence right now?"

Mead shook his head. "No, but  _A Midsummer Night's Dream_  is at the Savoy, sir," Mead said. "The production is quite…invigorating. Would you like me to secure tickets?"

"Invigorating?" Mary asked with a smile. "That sounds dangerous."

Mead's eyes had lit up. "There are several elements of the staging that breathe fresh life into Shakespeare's classic comedy."

"You've seen it, I take it?" Matthew asked, grinning.

Mead had the grace to look briefly abashed before he straightened and became the consummate butler once again. "More than once, sir, yes."

"Well then!" Matthew looked at Mary, who smiled and nodded to Mead.

"Yes, that would be perfect." She looked back at Matthew. "Would tomorrow night suit?"

"Yes."

"Very good, my lady," Mead replied. "I'll see that it's done."

"Thank you, Mead," Mary said.

"Have you seen it?" Matthew asked her. "I enjoyed it when a company came through Manchester a few years back."

"Yes, it's very droll," Mary replied, and Matthew chuckled.

They returned to their meal. When their plates were cleared, Mead came over to offer the dessert tray, but Matthew put up a hand.

"I find that I'm quite full," he said, glancing at Mary before looking up at Mead. "Would it be possible to have dessert sent up later?"

Mary shot Matthew a look but he just smiled at her. She frowned at him; he was being so terribly  _obvious_!

"Of course, sir," Mead replied, his expression unchanged. "Shall I wait for you to ring?"

"No; I don't think that will be necessary," Matthew answered, putting his napkin on the table and starting to push his chair back. "What is the cook's name?"

"Mrs Andrews."

"Please pass my compliments on to Mrs Andrews. The fish was delicious. An excellent meal."

Mary murmured her agreement, having no choice but to follow Matthew's lead. She stood up as he moved to stand beside her chair.

Mead smiled. "I will tell her, sir. I'm sure she'll appreciate your saying so."

Mary was certain that Mead knew exactly what Matthew was doing and she felt a warm flush of embarrassment. No dessert, no after-dinner drink for Matthew while she retired; it was all so irregular! She lifted her chin and gave the butler a cool nod as she moved past him, through the door that he held open. Matthew paused for a moment to exchange a few words with Mead and then caught up with her after she had crossed the foyer and reached the staircase. They mounted the stairs together, this time with no clandestine caresses, to Mary's relief—and, frustratingly, also regret. When she reached her bedroom door, she went inside and frowned when her attempt to close it behind her met with unexpected resistance. She turned, surprised to see Matthew slip in and close the door.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Aren't you going to undress?"

"Yes," he said, advancing on her with a grin. She took a step back and held up her hands.

He stopped moving. "What's wrong?"

"Won't Molesley be waiting for you?" She inclined her head in the direction of the dressing room.

Matthew began moving again. "No. I told Mead that we won't have further need of Molesley or Anna this evening."

Mary rolled her eyes. "God, Matthew, could you be any more obvious?"

He chuckled as he reached her and he put his hands on her waist. "I don't know how your kind of people do it," he said. "But I am  _done_  with this charade."

But the soft kiss he placed on her lips belied his words. From his manner, she'd been expecting something along the lines of how Kemal had pushed her against the wall with the force of his kiss, but Matthew wasn't Kemal. Mary closed her eyes. She did  _not_  want this night to be littered with comparisons to Kemal. She wanted Matthew, and only Matthew. She opened her eyes again and saw that he was looking at her with a curious expression. She mentally kicked herself and gave him a wide smile.

At this, he frowned and took his hands away from her waist. "What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing. Nothing's wrong. What a silly idea!" She realised that she was babbling, so she straightened and went on the offensive. "I'm just taken a bit by surprise. I'd rather expected a few minutes after dinner to gather myself, prepare, settle my nerves. This 'charade', as you call it, has its uses, you know."

Matthew glanced at the door. "I can ring for Anna, if you'd like," he said.

Mary raised her eyebrows, by now beginning to contemplate the prospect of what he was offering. "I think it's rather too late for that, don't you?"

He smiled, although there was still uncertainty in his eyes. "I don't mean to rush you, Mary. I'm terribly sorry."

He half-turned and exhaled, then lifted a hand as though to run his fingers through his hair but he stopped suddenly, probably because of the pomade, she realised. She found the gesture oddly endearing; it suggested something of him that she had never seen before: he was nervous, not entirely in control of himself. She began to have an inkling of an idea; she wanted to put him at ease.

"I couldn't bear another minute in that dining room," he said, his eyes flickering over her before he looked away. "Watching you but not being able to touch you." He looked back again, and she could see the effort he was making to respect her wishes. "I'll just— go change."

He started to move past her towards the door to his dressing room, but she put out a hand and told herself that this was allowed, for it was no more than she had done with him before now. She grasped his lapel and pulled him towards her, moving her hands up quickly to hold his face as he spun in surprise, and she kissed him with determination. He was nervous but he didn't need to be; she much preferred his confidence when he took the initiative. She had just been caught out, that was all, she tried to tell him in the kiss. She didn't want him to go. If he wanted them to undress together, then she would do it. She was his wife; she would trust him and try it, even though it was not what she'd expected. They would prepare together, rather than apart. The thrill of the unknown, of discovering him and exploring the freedom that lay in relaxing propriety, excited her. She poured all of this awareness, decision, and desire into the kiss, apologising for her earlier resistance. It was just the two of them, finally able to be husband and wife without any impediment but that which they introduced themselves. They would be separated soon enough: in  _this_  moment, she wanted to be united with him.

He broke free of the kiss, his breathing ragged, and laughed. " _God_ , Mary!"

She kissed him again to shut him up and he responded. She paused to catch her breath and relied on his arms to steady her, and he rested his forehead against hers. They swayed for a moment and then laughed quietly together. He buried his face in her neck and hugged her tightly. She felt a slight tremor in his frame and closed her eyes, tears burning along their edges.

"I'll do whatever you like, Matthew. Please just be patient with me," she said in a near-whisper.

He laughed, exhaling shakily, and pulled back, still holding her close as she looked at him. He swallowed and then his lips parted and his chest rose and fell as he looked at her in something akin to wonder. She blinked rapidly and smiled at him, wanting so terribly much to feel him relax. She moved her arms and he loosened his hold enough to allow her to reach up and cup his cheeks, stroking her thumbs across his face.

"I would ask the same of you, darling. Although," he said, closing his eyes. "I'm afraid that patience is not my strong suit at the moment." He opened his eyes with a wry smile.

"What is it?" she asked in amusement.

He swallowed. "I'd like nothing more than to divest you of this lovely gown and properly make you my wife with as little delay as possible." Mary drew in a breath at his words and at the way his eyes travelled down, his gaze finally lingering on the swells of her breasts.

He looked back up at her and smiled, drawing in a deep breath and straightening. "But what would you like to do?"

"I would," she glanced up at his hair, "like to help you undress. As a valet would. I'm curious."

"Really?"

Mary looked down at his shirtfront. Kemal had given her no warning, no time to prepare. She'd felt rushed, cornered; she'd known that she needed to seize the moment and embrace it fully, once she'd decided to go through with it, or the opportunity would be lost. But there was none of that urgency with Matthew—although she was aware of his eagerness—and she wanted to savour this evening, not rush through a few hurried minutes. She smiled at him.

"Yes, really."

"And may I do the same with you?" he asked. "I'm also curious."

"Certainly," she said.

"Well then," he stepped back with a grin. "Let's get to it!"

He took her hand and led her to his dressing room, where he gave her a final, appraising look, drew in a breath, and tugged his bow tie loose. He let go of her hand and she watched as he ran his fingers under his stiff collar and it sprang out on one side. The image of the polished gentleman was thus dispensed with and she smiled. He returned her smile and then handed her the tie and the collar.

"Where do I put these?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Anywhere, I suppose. Molesley will take care of them."

Mary glanced about and decided to leave them on the side table under the window. When she turned around, Matthew held out his tailcoat. Mary took it, noting its weight. She ran her hand over the fabric, appreciating its smoothness and the coolness of the satin facings. When she looked at him in question, he tilted his head towards the wardrobe as he started to unbutton the neck of his shirt. She crossed to the wardrobe and opened the doors, inspecting its contents. Once she had gained her bearings, she took out a clothes-hanger and settled the coat on it, carefully smoothing the shoulders and the lapels, before hanging it in the wardrobe.

Matthew chuckled. "You'd make a fine valet; that was Molesley to a tee."

Mary smiled and turned around ready to speak, but her response died on her lips at the sight that greeted her. Matthew had thrown his waistcoat over a nearby chair and shrugged off his braces, which now hung at his hips. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned and he was just then working at the buttons on his cuffs. Her attention was caught by his newly-exposed chest and stomach, and she noted the light brown hair and the paleness of his skin. So unlike— So beautiful. She wanted to run her hands over what she saw.

He looked up as he finished his cuffs and he seemed about to shrug off his shirt when he paused and smiled, taking her in. He turned and picked up the waistcoat from the chair and held it out towards her. When she did not immediately move, he said:

"Shall I bring it to you, then?"

She roused herself and walked over to him, quickly taking the waistcoat, but she wasn't looking at it. He pulled off his shirt. She tore her eyes away from him as he handed it to her and she started to neatly drape the shirt over the waistcoat on her arm, but she gave a start a moment later when he stole a kiss. She took a step back and raised her chin, fighting a smile.

"Mr Crawley! I'm surprised at how your treat your valet!"

He chuckled and turned away from her, moving towards the bathroom. "When my valet stares at me in such an unrestrained fashion, I can hardly be blamed for it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said primly, admiring his back and shoulders as she crossed the room to lay the discarded clothing on a shelf in the wardrobe. She decided to put the bow tie and collar there as well; Molesley would certainly know what to do with it all when he found it, she thought. She heard water running and peeked into the small side-room, curious. Matthew was stood before the sink, his hands under the taps. When he was satisfied, he left the water running and took a small bottle off the shelf before him, squirting something into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and then ran them through his hair. She watched in fascination. "What's that?"

"Oil," he said, wetting his hands and then turning off the taps. He poured a bit of powder shampoo into one palm and then glanced at her in the mirror as he lathered his hands. "I'll need a towel in a moment," he said, and started vigorously rubbing his scalp.

While she located the towel, he started to splash water into his hair: she realised that he'd filled the sink. She watched from a safe distance as he cleaned the pomade out of his hair and she waited for the moment when he needed the towel. When he finished, his eyes closed and his face dripping, he held out his hand. She silently gave him the towel and he rubbed his face and hair, then draped the towel round his neck and ran his fingers through his hair several times with a sigh of contentment. She watched him move and listened to the small sounds he made, entranced by this view into his domestic routine. Everything she'd done with Kemal had been in the dark, but here Matthew stood in the room's light, not even explicitly seducing her, and she was more eager and more comfortable than she had expected. She felt something in her begin to relax and she smiled.

He turned, pulling the towel down to dry his hands, and he gave her an appraising look, also smiling.

"What?" she asked.

"Just you," he answered, and he came close and kissed her with a contented sigh. "You were right: this charade does have its uses."

"This isn't a charade," she said. He chuckled and acknowledged her words with a wry nod. He held out the wet towel. She smirked at him and took it, enjoying the tousled, damp blonde locks that fell on either side of his face. There was something about this look that said more about their new intimacy than even his state of undress. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, curious, and he closed his eyes and rested his hands on her waist as she did so. "I like it," she said.

"Good," he answered, opening his eyes. He kissed her again, then drew back with a smile. "I'm nearly done, and then we can see to you." The look in his eyes made her shiver with anticipation.

He turned back to the sink and started the water again. She looked around for clues as to what she should do with the towel. Finding none, she decided to put it with his discarded clothing in the wardrobe. After she had done so, she returned to the bathroom and looked up in surprise at the sound of Matthew brushing his teeth as the sink drained.

"I hadn't expected you to be  _this_  thorough," she commented. He spat and filled a cup with water, took a sip, and spat again, still holding the toothbrush.

"You object?" he asked, wiping his mouth.

"No, not at all! I just…" she paused, realising that soon he was going to watch  _her_. "No one really watches me do this, not even Anna."

He smiled. "I won't take offence if you don't want to watch this," he said.

"Do you need my help with anything else?" she asked, glancing down at his trousers. "Do you want me to bring your…pyjamas?"

He shook his head. "I can manage on my own. If you'd like to start your preparations, I'll be over shortly."

Mary nodded. She gave him a small smile, which he returned.

"Just to be perfectly clear," she said as she reached the doorway and looked back at his reflection, arching an eyebrow, "do not expect me to touch your soiled clothes in future."

He laughed. "Understood."

She gave a satisfied nod and strode out, crossing the dressing room and entering the bedroom. She rummaged about in the dresser until she found the nightgown and robe she'd planned to wear this evening. It was a thinner fabric than anything else she owned and was positively daring; she smiled at the thought of wearing it for him. She carried it into the en-suite bathroom and left it on a shelf, then inspected what Anna had laid out. She nodded, satisfied. Everything was in its place. She'd never brushed her teeth while wearing an evening gown before, but as it would be difficult to remove the gown by herself, she would just have to make do. She pulled off her gloves and left them near the nightgown, then busied herself with her nightly ablutions.

Matthew padded into the bedroom a few minutes later, having removed his shoes and braces but not his trousers or socks. She glanced at him in the mirror as he approached, admiring what she saw. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching her dab at her face. She proceeded deliberately, determined that his presence would not distract her from making herself comfortable, studiously ignoring the fact that the moment was already unusual as she was still formally dressed. When she was done washing up, she removed her heels and carried them past him out of the room; he stood back to let her pass.

"What should I do?" he asked.

She held out the shoes and pointed across the room. "Would you put these over there?"

He did as she asked and by the time he'd returned, she'd seated herself at the vanity and was removing her necklace and earrings. She laid them in their case and then lifted her knees with some discomfort and tugged off her stockings, balling them up and dropping them on the floor. He crouched down beside her and picked them up with a laugh.

"You don't hand these to your maid, I take it?"

"Not usually," she replied, unfazed by his implied rebuke. "Anna usually just trails around behind me, gathering things up."

He laughed again. "That I can easily imagine."

She sighed, feeling pinched by her corset after tugging off her stockings, and stood. "Would you unlace me?"

"Gladly," he answered. "But where should I put these?"

Mary frowned; she'd never really thought about what Anna did with her discarded clothing. It just reappeared later, cleaned. "The shelf in the bathroom, beside my other things."

While Matthew found the shelf, Mary considered loosening her hair, but decided against it: it would only complicate the process of unlacing her gown. Anna preferred to do her hair last. When Matthew returned, Mary presented her back to him and her bare skin tingled with the memory of his earlier touch. She glanced over her shoulder as he bent behind her with a slight frown.

"Let's see…" he murmured. She felt him tug on something at her side and then heard "Ah!" and she felt the familiar loosening of the gown's shoulder panels. He worked through the laces surprisingly quickly. A moment later, his fingernails brushed against her back as he grasped the top of her dress and tugged the zipper steadily down. Her skin prickled as she recalled just how far down the zipper went. She wanted him to do something provoking, but he did not; when he finished, he merely stepped back from her and waited. She twisted and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. He was looking down at her back in some consternation.

"What?" she asked.

"That looks uncomfortable," he said with a slight frown.

"The price of beauty," she replied, shrugging her shoulders out of her gown. He made an unconvinced sound but said nothing.

She shimmied out of the garment, careful not to catch the gauzy fabric on her corset. She couldn't bend down to properly step out of the gown, not with her corset still on, and she didn't want to drop the dress on the floor, so she stood waiting for a moment. This was usually where Anna stepped in to assist. Mary turned and beckoned to him with a toss of her head and a smile.

"I'm afraid I'm about to be a terrible maid," he said, hanging back.

"You've not done badly yet," she said, trying to reassure him with a smile. "Here, would you hold this for me?"

He sank to one knee and grinned up at her as he took the gown out of her hands. "That's not what I meant," he said. He held the gown carefully as she stepped out of its circle, gathering her chemise about her legs to make sure she didn't step on the dress.

"Thank you," she said, letting go of her chemise. "What did you mean?"

Mary watched him stand up with the armful of evening gown and she smiled as he tried to figure out what to do with the yards of fabric. She took pity on him and pointed at the dressing room. "It's probably best to lay it out on the bed in there," she said.

He made a sound of agreement and moved to do so. Mary put her hands on her hips as he left the room. Her gaze fell on the bed in front of her and her mind was suddenly filled with the image of having him underneath her there, at her mercy. Her body responded with the sensations to match the image and she ached with the desire to realise it. She wanted to be in control this time. She turned away from the bed suddenly and closed her eyes, rubbed her brow. Would he let her do that or would it be too forward? She wanted to so terribly much, but would it reveal something better left hidden? She thought that perhaps a virgin bride would be more passive, more easily led, but her desires ran in quite the opposite direction, so much so that she feared that they encroached on the shameful. Baser images flooded her now and she felt warm, too warm. She wanted this corset to be removed. She tried to reach behind herself and find the ties, but her movements were awkward and frustrated by the stiffness of the garment. She felt a burn begin behind her eyes but she refused to allow tears. She would not commence her wedding night by crying.

"Let me," Matthew said from behind her, covering her tugging hands with his own larger ones. She straightened and drew in a breath, stopped from full satisfaction by the damned corset. Her body dreamed of its freedom and she closed her eyes and waited as Matthew inspected the corset and then began loosening its laces. The moment she felt it give way enough for her to unhook the front panels, she did so, and immediately drew in a full breath. She'd not felt short of breath until just a few moments ago, but now her heart was beating more quickly and she needed to be free of constriction.

She slipped off the shoulder straps and pulled her arms out of the garment, handing it to him. Her eyes closed, she gloried in the freedom of movement and the lack of pressure on her skin for several long seconds, turning to face him as she did. When she next opened her eyes, she found that he was still standing there, his mouth slightly open as he watched her. He wasn't holding her corset. She glanced down, surprised, and saw that he'd laid it on the seat in front of the vanity.

He swallowed and met her eyes. "What would the maid do now?"

Mary blinked and considered him for a moment, then smiled. "She would stand ready to take my chemise and give me my nightgown." She gestured towards the bathroom, where her nightgown remained on the shelf.

He took a step closer, ignoring where she was pointing.

"This is where I fail to meet those standards," he said in a low voice, slipping his arms around her and leaning down for a kiss.

She had a brief moment to note the novelty of how much taller he was, now that they both stood at their natural heights, before his lips met hers. Although his embrace quickly became gentle, she'd felt the initial pressure he had used before relaxing his arms. He was restraining himself and she didn't want him to. She didn't want to restrain herself either and she was hungry to discover who he truly was. Perhaps encouraging him to relinquish some of his self-control would give her a clue as to how much she might be permitted to relinquish as well.

She put her hands on his waist, feeling the smoothness and warmth of his skin and the strength of the muscles under it. She traced them with her palms and ran her fingers over his back, matching his embrace and smiling as she felt him shiver under her touch. As she had hoped, his arms tightened around her and his kiss deepened and he gave a low hum. She smiled and briefly broke the kiss, angling her head differently to meet him again, and let herself revel in the sensations that their movements together evoked.

Her eyes still closed, she felt him lower his head to kiss under the edge of her jaw and she sighed with pleasure, warming and excited to finally be moving this night forward. She was done with her preparations and he with his; she was ready and what he was doing felt  _so_  good. She melted against him, acquiescing to whatever he wished to do, her breath coming in short gasps. His quiet moans of pleasure sent shivers through her; she dearly loved learning these sounds. She felt a laugh bubble up as he pushed one shoulder of her chemise aside and showered warm attention on her newly-exposed skin.

She was steadying herself now with one arm draped behind his neck, her hand splayed on the back of his shoulder, enjoying the movements of his muscles under her palm. Her other hand moved up to thread through his damp hair and she ran her nails over his scalp, enjoying the new sounds he made as she did this. He ceased his kissing and sank against her slightly with a relaxed moan. She drew in a long breath: he smelled clean and warm and eminently appealing and she smiled, then caught herself with a gasp as she felt his hand move up to cup the side of her breast. He hummed and pulled back to look at her. She smiled up at him and together they looked down at what he was doing. His tentative explorations quickly elicited small shocks of pleasure and she responded; he kissed her again with a soft chuckle.

Oh God, she'd had enough of this slow waiting. It was difficult to recall why she should feel shame when she was flooded with such an eagerness to take him on her own terms. He'd never seemed the least bit put off by her challenging him before; in fact, he'd taken quite readily to engaging her and meeting her intellectual swordplay or her playfully evasive riding. He hadn't always jumped the streams and hedges as she had, but he'd found his own way through the thickets and had surprised her on many occasions with his resourcefulness. He would meet her now, she was sure of it.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him hard, roughly breaking their kiss as she did so. His face registered shock and confusion as he took a step back, instantly lifting his hands away from her body.

"Mary, what—?"

She took a step forward. "Lay back on the bed," she commanded.

His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open and he took several steps backwards as she advanced on him. She continued moving forward and the backs of his legs met the side of the bed, bringing him to a stop. Already committed, she did not permit herself to waver: she put her palms on his chest and pushed. He let her and he quickly threw out a hand behind himself to break his fall, but he caught her unexpectedly with his other arm, bringing her down with him and shooting her a triumphant smile. She fell heavily against him with an undignified "oof!", her elbow catching awkwardly under his armpit. She pushed herself up immediately and frowned down at him, steadying herself with both hands on the bedspread. She was stood against the side of the bed, one of her legs between his, and he had dropped both of his arms to rest by his sides. He raised his eyebrows with a smug smile.

"Yes, my lady?"

She frowned down at him again. "Don't call me that. You're a member of the family."

He chuckled. "I'll call you what I like, my—"

She pushed herself up on to the bed and cut him off with a forceful kiss, which she broke when she was quite finished. "Call me 'darling', 'Mary', whatever else is appropriate," she said, pulling back to a standing position, one knee still resting beside his hip on the bed. She'd held herself up by trapping his arms under her hands, and she released him now with deliberation, slightly taken aback by her own actions but unwilling to let him know that.

"Mrs Crawley?" he asked with a grin, his loose blonde hair giving him a devil-may-care air. She growled, which only widened his smile. "Darling Mary?" he tried again.

"'Darling' is fine," she said. "'Mary' is fine. 'Darling Mary' sounds like a child's doll."

"Mary Jo?"

"Do I look like I'm from the Middle West?" she demanded.

He burst out laughing. "Now  _there's_  an image!"

"I  _never_  want to hear you call me that again," she growled.

He just laughed and pulled her face down for a kiss. She tried to resist him, but he was stronger than she was. Half a second before a feeling of panic could overtake her, he released her and she pushed herself back up with a huff.

He had that smug smile on his face again.

"You're so beautiful when you're angry," he said. "It's difficult to resist needling you."

"I'm not angry," she retorted.

"What's this, then?"

"Annoyed."

"Ahh," he answered, running his hands down her arms. "What's your pleasure, then, darling?"

"Better," she said.

He smirked and lifted his hands over his head, slipping them underneath it and relaxing back. He looked self-satisfied as her eyes left his face and trailed down the rest of him. Deciding to wipe the smirk off his face, she took a step back and lifted off her chemise, tossing it aside before stripping down entirely. She was pleased to see that he looked slightly stunned now and she kept her eyes on his face as she stepped out of her knickers. He had taken his hands out from underneath his head and he started to sit up, but she wasn't in the mood for that.

She climbed up and straddled him, pushing him back with one hand as she steadied herself with the other, and she settled down, moving her hips slightly until she was comfortable. She was secretly thrilled to note his response beneath her; she loved this feeling of control, of knowing what came next and of being able to predict his responses. She had a strange shot of awareness at the idea of what Kemal must have felt, controlling  _her_ , and she pushed this aside, disturbed, and shifted again to find a more comfortable position. This was completely different.

Matthew moaned and thrust his hips up against her. His eyes were closed and his hands convulsed where they gripped her thighs. His chest rose and fell with rough breaths and he opened his eyes again. They were surprisingly dark and she found the sight arousing. She bent down and kissed him fiercely and he responded with equal force. She marvelled at how he seemed pleased by her forwardness; she could feel him smiling as he kissed her and she pulled back a hair's-breadth to look down at him in wonder.

"You are so  _beautiful_ ," he breathed.

Happiness bubbled up inside her and she grinned. His hands had found their way to her bottom and he curled his fingertips teasingly against her skin, making her giggle. Their soft laughter mingled together before they cut it off suddenly with another kiss. His hands roamed over her freely now and she let them. She rose up slightly to give him easier access and knelt over him, feeling powerful and desirable and enjoying every moment with the whole of her being. He broke free of the kiss with a moan, his hands cupping her breasts. He ran his thumbs over her nipples in curiosity, and she felt herself squeeze involuntarily in response.

Oh God, she knew what she wanted and she didn't want to wait. Her body ached and nearly drove her mad with its demand. She pressed her hips down against his and he curled up towards her with another moan, taking her in his arms and rolling her suddenly down beside him, holding her in a hard kiss.

Their feet had no purchase and Matthew broke away and sat up, gaining his footing, as Mary pulled herself further back on to the bed. She was briefly disappointed by his drawing away, but pleased a moment later as she realised that he was taking the opportunity to match her state of undress.

She smiled as he kicked off the last of his clothing and climbed back on to the bed with a look of single-minded focus. She had barely enough time to bring herself far enough on to the bed to give her feet purchase before he had gained a position kneeling over her, his hands on either side of her shoulders. He lowered his head and kissed her, repeatedly breaking the contact and leaving her breathless. She could do little more than close her eyes and cling to him, thrilling at the power he was displaying. Yes,  _this_. This was what she wanted, and she wanted more of him than this. She wrapped her legs around his and tightened them and he groaned-laughed and moved his head down her body.

She broke her legs' hold on him as he pulled away and she arched up against him, her hips frustrated at not meeting aught but air, and felt his mouth close over her breast.  _God_ , she ached. It felt wonderful but it wasn't enough—it wasn't what she really wanted. She wanted this and she wanted  _more_. She writhed and tried to pull his head up—what he was doing was torture: it was sending pleasurable shocks through her and she shivered with each one—but he just gave a low chuckle and continued his suckling.

"Matthew!" she gasped. He hummed and lifted his head to look at her with a thoroughly satisfied smile. She breathed a sigh of relief—the torture had ceased—and then gave a cry of dismay that was choked off against her will with a moan of pleasure when his mouth found her other nipple. "God, Matthew!" she cried. "Stop! Too…much!"

He gave a low laugh and lifted his head. "Now you know how I felt," he said.

"Please," she said, trying to lift her hips to tell him what she meant. She could see from the look in his eyes that he understood and was only too willing to acquiesce. He gave a curt nod and pulled back. She suppressed a moan of disappointment and willed herself to patience, something that she was terribly short on at the moment. What was he waiting for? She frowned up at him and then followed his gaze, realising only a moment before his touch what he was about. Her hips twitched involuntarily and she gasped as his hand found its target and ran down the length of her as he explored her contours. There was a brief pain and she hissed—whatever that was, she did  _not_  want to be touched there—and then a moment later, his finger slipped inside her and she moaned, her eyes squeezing shut.

"There," he said, his voice altered. "So wet!"

She opened her eyes and watched him, her heart beating hard in her chest. When his eyes met hers, she nodded.

He started to position himself over her. "I'll try not to hurt you," he said.

"Don't worry about that," she said, remembering the shock of the pain from Kemal's entry but prepared for it this time. She wanted this so much that the idea of a brief sting barely stayed her. Matthew started to move his hips down, but she had a sudden thought and quickly put out a hand to stop him. He looked at her, confused, and she smiled at him. "Just a moment," she said, remembering what Kemal had done first. It was sure to minimise the pain for her, she thought. Her smile widened as she reached down, wet her fingers, and slipped them down the length of him, eliciting a gasp from him as his whole body stiffened in surprise. She repeated the gesture, marvelling at the feel of him against her fingers and thoroughly enjoying the small sounds and movements he made, until she was satisfied, and then she looked up at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was breathing through his mouth. She took her hand away, wiping her fingers on her leg, and curved up to meet his mouth with her own. He kissed her back, his response slightly delayed. His breath ran over her lips.

"Now, darling," she said, and he opened his eyes. He met her gaze for a moment and then looked down between their bodies, positioning himself. She lifted her hips, waiting to feel what her body was aching for and then— _yes_ —as his body filled hers, slipping smoothly inside her.

He groaned deeply and shuddered, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut.

She was trembling herself. There had been no pain, just a deep sense of satisfaction and an immediate hunger for more. She moved her hands over him in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion. His eyes were shut tight as he tried to control himself and hold his weight steady above her. She continued to massage his taut, trembling form, the sight of him so impassioned and vulnerable making her heart squeeze.

"Matthew," she said, moving her hands gently. "Look at me, Matthew."

He forced his eyes open. She smiled and nodded, watching as his eyes narrowed in concentration. His first movements were jerky and he pulled out too far once, making her cry out in disappointment, but he re-entered her immediately, eliciting a mutual groan of relief, and he quickly found a steady rhythm.

She grinned at the feel of him moving under her eager hands and then she gasped her delight. It was happening again! A growing, wild, wordless pressure tightened the whole of her body, increased by each of his thrusts. She began to feel almost as if she were dizzy with the intensity that was building in her and she urged him on. She recognised the sensation, but this time it was strangely different: it was building more slowly, but rising with a relentlessness that shocked her. It was carrying her off and all she could do was moan and hold on to him and throw her whole body into matching his. The building tension seemed to go on, past what she'd been expecting, making her mind reel. The intensity drove out all thought of the world outside and then—

She gave a strangled moan and pulsed and rocked with it and waves rolled through her, washing away all of her tension. She was dimly aware of the strength of his response above her as he arched back suddenly and she relaxed into the warmth and light, her body well and truly satisfied, heavy and loose-limbed. His movements slowed, still sending pleasure through her, and she moaned again. Her breath was coming fast from the exertion and her eyes were wet with happiness. She had a whole lifetime with him! A whole lifetime of this!

He collapsed on to her heavily and did not move, and she suddenly couldn't draw air into her lungs.

Her whole body screamed with panic and before she was even fully aware of herself, she was pushing and kicking at him wildly, desperate to dislodge the dead body, unable to breathe—

_Notagainnotagainnotagainnotagain—_

He cried out in surprise and pain and pulled back awkwardly, trying to protect his face from her mad attack, and heaved himself to the side. "What the—Mary? Stop! Mary!"

By this point, his initial cry had penetrated her panic and with the removal of his dead weight, Mary looked at him—he was very much alive—and suddenly realised the terrible enormity of her error. A flood of dark memories was flashing over her skin, mixing with the light and the rictus of Matthew's face and twisting the moment into a living nightmare.

Mary shuddered and cried out in horror and curled in on herself, wrenching away from the hand that he'd put on her arm to calm her while she thrashed. Her heart was pounding almost painfully in her chest and she couldn't seem to draw in a full breath. The warm glow of contentment had drained away and left only shaking shame in its wake.

She knew what had just happened. It had all been going so beautifully: Kemal hadn't intruded, it had just been Matthew, her mind and body entirely consumed with her husband, and she had lost herself in his arms. It had just been so... _good_ , so much  _more_. She'd soared and she thought that he had as well, and she'd been so blissfully happy, so happy she could cry, so relieved, so grateful, so at peace.

And then the old nightmare had swept over her and her body had betrayed her before she'd even realised it and she had destroyed everything. Matthew must despise her for it. How could she ever do this with him again? She would be in fear of this involuntary response swallowing her every time, poisoning this beautiful, living hope that she'd had with him. And never mind her own pleasure, what of his? How could he ever enjoy a wife who would lose control of herself and fight him off after they'd made love? Everything everyone had ever said about 'damaged goods' was true; she was the living embodiment of this hell, of her disobedience. His forgiveness had not been enough to heal her or to wipe away her guilt.

She sobbed, knowing that even if she hadn't given in to her desire to assert control, if she'd been as passive and tentative as she had been with Kemal, she would still have come to this end. She was trapped; there was no way out. She was a broken, wretched thing, now not just living in her own hell, but dragging her beloved Matthew down into the blackness with her. He'd married her; he was trapped. There was no getting out of this for her kind of people.

Even though divorce was not an option, she would let him go, let him find a better lover, a whole one, and she wouldn't hold him back. The joy that she'd felt earlier was matched now by the absolute conviction that she would never be happy, never could be, never deserved to be…for if she were forced to let Matthew go, to watch him walk into the arms of a better woman, she would die inside. No; bitter steel rose up in her. She already was dead inside. She would not let him go: she would  _make_  him go. He would protest, but she would take whatever last tattered shred of control that she had and make the cut swiftly. She preferred a quick death over a lingering one, and it would be best for him as well.

She shivered, naked and cold in her resolve, the sweat on her skin drawing away heat and reminding her of all that they had just done together. The happiness was a memory and her body ached; before, it had been a pleasant sleepiness, but now she just felt battered and weary, old and unable to find rest.

She felt his hand rest tentatively on her arm again, but this time she did not shrug him off. She squeezed her eyelids shut against the burning of her tears and pressed her face into the bed to muffle a sob. She did not have the energy or the desire to fight him. She wished desperately for his touch even as she knew she could not permit herself to enjoy it. She'd hurt him.

Oh God, she'd  _hit_  him. More than once. Her dear  _Matthew_. If anyone deserved it less, she'd couldn't name them. He who was always so gentle with her. Edith was right: Mary didn't deserve him and never would.

A sob convulsed her and she curled into herself more tightly.

She felt his warm lips press against her shoulder and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, unable to stop the next convulsive sob.

"Oh, God, Mary," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking. "I'm  _so sorry_."

A bitter laugh rose out of her amidst another sob and she shook her head, unable to speak.

"No, I  _am_ ," he said. "I should have known not to fall on you like that. I should have realised—"

"No!" she managed, her voice jumping as her body shook, out of her control. "No, Matthew! Stop!" She pulled away from him now. "We both know: this was  _my_  fault."

"No!" he said, just as forcefully, pulling himself against her and cradling her body with his own. She wanted to fight him but the thought of hurting him further just stabbed her through and she shook with the force of another sob, going limp against him instead, exhausted. She covered her face with her hands, aware that there was a damp spot quickly growing under her cheek. Her ear was wet with the tears that pooled there.

"No," he said more softly, and she felt his breath warm, then cooled, on her other ear. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault."

She was angry now; he had never listened to her about this. He had adopted a narrow perspective on it that simplified too much, but the memories that flooded her now were sharp and incriminating and she felt as though she had trapped him with a lie.

"It  _is!_ " she said as she twisted her head to shout at him, irrationally wanting to wound him with the truth. "I  _chose_  him, Matthew! I let him kiss me! I kissed him back! I enjoyed it!" The skin around his eyes tightened as he watched her, but he did not stop her speaking. "I took Kemal Pamuk as my lover. It does not matter how the night began, or whether I felt trapped, I made the choice! I was eager to feel the excitement. I was curious, aroused, flattered, just as rebellious as everyone thinks! I'm damaged goods. Edith was right, I  _am_  a slut!"

" _No_ , Mary," he said fiercely, his arm tightening around her. "Feeling pleasure in the midst of his—" Matthew's nostrils flared and his jaw worked, "— _terrible_  actions does  _not_  make you a slut!" He bit out the final word. "He trapped you and used your body against you."

She gave a wordless, high-pitched growl of frustration and broke his hold on her with a hard twist, rising up on her elbows. Matthew was denying her sense of free will and conscious choice, her assertion of control, her right to be treated as an adult with full knowledge of her actions.

" _I know what I did, Matthew!_ " she fairly screamed at him, her desperation rising. "You don't know! You weren't there! I'm damaged goods! I can't forget what happened, or pretend it was something that it wasn't! I tried, but I can't escape it! I am a wanton slut who spread her legs for a complete stranger! I can't be something I'm not and you're a damn  _fool_  to believe otherwise!" Her voice broke and she fought a sob.

Her ear was cold; she wiped at it impatiently, her movements jerky. His frowning face was a blur through the tears that stung her eyes and she blinked and wiped roughly at them, too, trying to clear her vision. She expected to see judgement and censure at last, to have the relief of finally being understood. He  _must_  see now that this was the end, after the awful way she'd treated him, but what she found in his expression was far worse. Love. Compassion. His frown had melted away and she realised that it had not been directed at her. It had been an expression of thoughtfulness and not anger on his face.

He was impossible! He wasn't listening to her. He was going to persist in his delusion of her worth. He wasn't going to make the break easy or swift.

"Mary—"

He reached for her again but she sob-screamed and pushed him away, rolling off the bed and hurling herself towards the bathroom. She couldn't bear to look at him, to hear him try to talk her out of what she knew to be true, and she ignored each stab in her heart as she heard him call her name. He didn't  _know_ ; he hadn't been there. She had taken what pleasure she could and her wantonness had led to Kemal's death and now to this living hell that she had inflicted on Matthew. It was her pain to bear. Her fault.

She made it to the bathroom and shut herself inside, Matthew's desperate voice drowned out by the loud slam of the heavy oak door and her own sobbing.

* * *

Matthew lay on the bed in shock, his throat thick and sore, as his last call of Mary's name died on his lips. The hard finality of the closed door stood between them and his heart twisted painfully at the faint, muffled sounds of her sobs that filtered through it.

He rose from the bed, leaving the mussed bedclothes behind, and walked over to the door, wanting so desperately to gather Mary, his dear  _wife_ , in his arms and reassure her, comfort her, hold her close. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, that she was more than the product of one awful (pleasurable?) night in the distant past. He wanted to help her see that she was so much more, that she meant a very great deal to him, that he wasn't put off. If only she would  _listen!_

He lifted his hand to knock on the door but was stayed by the sound of a wrenching sob. She was struggling to draw in a breath, her sobbing was so violent, and when he placed his palm on the door, he felt the wood vibrate. She must be pressed against it, he realised, just on the other side...

He rested his forehead and his other palm against the door and closed his eyes, feeling as though the wood were a thousand miles thick, for all that he could penetrate it and reach her. What could he possibly say that he had not already said? His words had fallen on deaf ears, his touch had been inadequate, and it was his thoughtless actions that had caused this terrible memory to flare back into life for Mary again, reducing their joy to ash.

His eyes were already shut and he squeezed them more tightly closed. He was powerless to make this right, powerless to heal her.

 _God!_  he cried.  _What do I do?_

_Come away from the door._

He didn't want to leave her; he wanted to be  _closer_  to her.

_Come away from the door, Matthew._

_No!_  his heart cried.  _I can't!_

_Yes, you can. Leave her to Me._

_Lord...!_  he cried in desperation. His knees felt weak and he rested his forehead against the door for one final moment before drawing in a deep breath, straightening, and pushing off. Weariness filled his frame.

_Come away, Matthew._

He opened his eyes as he turned away from the door. The room was empty, the bed rumpled.

Joy to ash.

All of his worst fears had been realised in one, awful, shocking moment: the very moment when he had felt most assured of success. All of his efforts seemed foolish now. He was powerless in the face of this.

 _True._  Matthew heard a touch of gentle amusement.  _But I am not._

He closed his eyes again, feeling the familiar beckoning in his spirit, and let out the breath he'd been holding.

_I will provide._

_But how?_  Matthew wondered. It seemed impossible.

_Trust Me._


	12. Chapter 12

_12_

Mary stood naked in the bathroom, sobbing and shivering. The tiles were cool against her feet and she found that she couldn't stand any longer. She sank to the floor, her back against the door. She'd never sat naked on the floor before, at least not that she could remember, and the dampness between her legs made the tiles cold and uncomfortable. She sucked in a breath through her nose, which had started to run, and slowly, stiffly, climbed to her feet in search of a towel. She might be a slut and a total failure as a wife, but she could at least clean herself up and look presentable.

Her sobs quieted as she brought herself under control. She took in her reflection stoically. Her eyes, nose, and cheeks were red and blotchy, entirely unattractive, her hair hung askew, and wisps and clumps stuck out at odd angles. They'd begun their lovemaking and she'd forgotten that she had never taken her hair down. She did it now, pulling out pin after pin and leaving them along the edge of the sink, feeling as though each one were a reminder of all that she had lost; the death of hope. Snorting sourly at her melodramatic turn, she tugged her final hairpins out and they dropped into the sink with a tiny clatter. Her pin box was somewhere, probably out on the vanity, but Mary couldn't care less about the disarray in the sink. Her brush was out there too, so she had to settle for running her fingers through her hair. She wasn't happy with the results, but there was nothing for it. If she was to face Matthew looking on the outside as she felt inside, then at least she would be honest. She laughed bitterly at the idea that even now she was keeping her promise to him. It was the only promise that she had left that she  _could_  keep.

She wiped quickly at her tears and looked at the clothing available: a pair of cream-coloured gloves and a thin nightgown and robe. She picked up the nightgown but paused: she had no knickers to put on first and the thought of emerging into the bedroom wearing provocative clothing seemed entirely wrong, but reappearing naked was worse. She could wrap herself in a bath sheet, perhaps, and find a sensible nightgown from the dresser. She closed her eyes and pressed her ear against the door, but she could hear nothing from the other side. Matthew was probably not even in the bedroom any longer. He had likely gone into his dressing room and they would see nothing of each other for the rest of the night. She felt a mix of relief and sadness at the thought. They could not avoid one another for the whole of tomorrow, but perhaps they could at least talk and come to some understanding, find some way of parting without the rest of the family finding out until they were ready to make the announcement. Mary did not think an annulment was possible—they were not Catholic, after all—but perhaps some arrangement could be made. Perhaps the ceremony could be found to be faulty in some way—

She wiped at fresh tears and laughed bitterly to herself. None who had witnessed their wedding could possibly be convinced that it had not been done properly. No; they must live with this, this hell that was all her fault.

She'd been so angry before, so fearful, at the prospect of his leaving for war so soon after their wedding, but now his joining up was a blessing in disguise. They could surely find some way of hiding the dreadful truth for the next few days, and then he would be gone and no one would question their separation. They would have time to sort through things, decide what to do, perhaps at least part ways as friends if they could not be lovers. Married people did this sort of thing all the time, didn't they? Why else did they sleep in separate bedrooms? Her parents were the exception, not the rule. She already knew that, but she had thought that she and Matthew would be the exception, too: they got on so well.

She clutched the nightgown to her chest and sobbed. If she could not find happiness with him, she would never find it with anyone. Even the prospect of taking another lover was not one she could look forward to, for it would always end in this nightmare. And really, she didn't want anyone else if she couldn't have Matthew. He had the effect of making every other man she'd met pale in comparison, with his kindness and his wit and his way of gently exposing her true self whilst loving her anyway. No; she would stay true to him. She had promised him that, at least, even if she could not be a  _proper_  wife to him.

All her attempts to right herself had failed; she was just as broken as she always had been and how could she put a calm face on it?

She forced herself to straighten and she pushed back her tears with a deep breath, set down the nightgown, and cleaned herself up again, then pulled on the nightgown and robe, holding the fabric closed at the front. She was  _not_  going to spend the rest of this night, or the rest of her life, feeling sorry for herself. She would find something to do, someone to be, someplace to go. She would stop waiting for a man to give her life meaning. Sybil was right: Mary would step out of the waiting room on her own strength and make something of herself. What, she didn't know yet, but she would find it. There was a war on; surely she could make herself useful in some way. Even if she couldn't properly be Matthew's wife, she could support his efforts, support the men who fought, and do everything in her power to help them come home safely.

She gave herself a stern look in the mirror, swallowed, lifted her chin, and turned and put her hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath and forcing back the sudden urge to cry again, she pulled open the door and strode out.

Matthew was nowhere to be seen, although the door to his dressing room stood slightly ajar. The bedclothes were mussed; Mary looked away and walked to the chest of drawers. She needed to change into a more sensible nightgown. She wasn't exactly sure what she would do after that—her eyes flickered over to the dressing room door and then she drew them back to the matter at hand—but at least she had a plan. She followed through with it and then carefully folded the thin nightgown and robe and laid them at the bottom of the drawer, pulling other clothes over them. She would not have need of them again and she did not want to be reminded when the drawer was next opened. Closing it, she straightened and looked about the bedroom. At first there was silence, but then she heard a soft murmuring and she frowned.

Her feet carried her to the dressing room door and she put her palm against it and pushed, silently opening the door all the way. Her breath caught when she saw Matthew's naked form. He was standing in the bathroom, his back to her, bent over the sink as his hands gripped either side of it. He was making the murmuring sounds, and she noticed that they were interspersed with small gasps now and then, almost as if he were… _crying_ , she realised.

All earlier thoughts of not being with him until the following day fled and she instead wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, to try to repair the damage that she had done, or at least soothe the wounds that she had inflicted on him. It was terribly unfair that her mistakes should result in his pain: he had done nothing wrong.

As she drew nearer, though, her ears caught a phrase that she wasn't expecting:

"…draw her close to you…" Matthew was saying. "Please…I can't…"

She frowned. He wasn't making sense.

His shoulders shook again and her heart twisted in her chest. She stopped just before the doorway and watched him. Her chest started to feel tight and she realised that she was holding her breath. She drew in air suddenly and Matthew stiffened and lifted his head. Their eyes met in the mirror and her earlier suspicion was confirmed: he was crying. It was a sight that she never wanted to see again, never should have seen at all. She was the cause of this and it  _hurt_.

Matthew turned to face her, ignoring the tear-tracks on his face. Mary would have been wiping at her cheeks in this moment, but he merely looked at her. His expression still was not one of censure. She couldn't meet his gaze any longer and she dropped her eyes to his feet. She realised he was still wearing his black dress socks. She frowned and half-smiled. She didn't remember seeing him take them off before, but then she hadn't been paying much attention to his feet at the time.

"Why are you still wearing your socks?" she asked, which immediately sounded inane, but the words had been spoken and could not be taken back. She bit her lip.

Matthew gave a disbelieving chuckle. "My feet are cold."

Mary frowned; her feet felt fine. "Really? But it's a warm night."

Matthew crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ' _This_  is what you want to argue about?'

Mary, incongruously, felt the urge to laugh. She shook her head and looked away, decided to try again. "What were you doing just now?"  _Besides crying, of course._

Matthew dropped his arms. "Praying."

Mary frowned, confused. "About what?"

Matthew gave her a look that bordered on censure now. "You. Us."

That made a bit more sense of the words she'd heard, but she was curious. She had of course been taught to pray as a child, but she couldn't recall anyone ever praying for her, specifically, as an adult. God helps those who help themselves and all of that; she was expected to sort things out on her own as an adult. Prayer was for desperate circumstances, a last resort when there was no hope. It was a wish thrown into the dark with no guarantee of return. It was what people did when there was nothing else they could do and they didn't want to feel like they weren't doing anything. She and Matthew would work through this and come to some understanding; what had prayer to do with it?

"Why?" she asked, annoyed.

Matthew frowned. "You really don't…?" he trailed off and looked away, then down. "No." He closed his eyes. "You don't."

This didn't make much sense either, but she wanted to understand. She felt as though she were miles away from him despite the fact that they stood only a few feet from each other.

"What did you pray for me?" she asked in a softer voice.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. After regarding her a moment, he turned and pulled a cloth off the shelf beside the sink, dried his face, took a deep breath, and let it out. He set the cloth back on the shelf and turned around, glancing down at her nightgown.

"Would you mind if I dressed while we talked?" he asked, gesturing at her clothing.

"Not at all," she said quickly, stepping back from the doorway. He nodded and walked past her, his moving form drawing an appreciative glance from her. He really was beautiful— She looked away. She ought not to take pleasure in looking at him now. It seemed wrong to take that from him after what she had done. She felt as though the restraints that had been lifted upon their marriage were back in place again, although now for a different reason, and one that was entirely self-inflicted. Perhaps she should leave him, rather than interrogating him about his private means of coping with grief. What right had she to ask now? But she could not force herself to go just yet.

He went to the wardrobe and rummaged in it until he found a pair of dark blue pyjamas. He pulled on the trousers first and she noticed that he didn't put on any drawers underneath them, then reprimanded herself for looking again. As he buttoned the shirt, he walked slowly over to her. She didn't step back, but she didn't meet his eyes, either. He was close enough now that she could smell him, and the newly-familiar scent—which reminded her of when she had pressed her lips to his neck as he'd moved inside her, above her—made her close her eyes as a sudden wave of longing washed over her. She wanted nothing more than to rest her cheek against his warm chest and find a moment of rest. Such a privilege was out of her reach now and so she stood still. Why was he standing so close?

She gave a start when she felt a hand slide into her hair, at the nape of her neck. The hand immediately stilled. After a long moment, his fingers moved up slowly and his palm came to cradle the back of her head. She kept her eyes closed, not sure what she was expected to do and afraid of doing something that would cause him to move away. She felt as though she were stealing this touch from him; that if he knew her, really knew her, he would never want to touch her again. Her mouth fell open as she felt his lips press against her forehead. The kiss was soft and gentle and he lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"I love you so terribly much," he said, drawing back but leaving his hand in her hair.

She opened her eyes, frowning at the small hairs that were visible above the collar of his shirt.

"How could you?" she asked, her throat dry and tight. "After all that?"

His fingers flexed against her scalp, encouraging her to look up. He rubbed his other hand soothingly against her arm.

When she met his eyes, he said with a smile, "How could I not?"

"Easily," she answered sharply, feeling anger rising in her again, even as she just wanted to melt against him. She pulled away, regretting it instantly as she watched the hurt of another rejection cross his face. She stopped moving back and put up her hands to touch his arms, feeling as though her attempts at soothing him were useless. What did she have to offer that could possibly make this better? He seemed to just want to pretend that it didn't matter, but couldn't he see that she would just hurt him again and again? She was unable  _not_  to. She pressed her lips together and broke away from his gaze, shaking her head and fighting tears again. Why did he persist?

"I don't deserve your love," she said, unable to stop her voice from breaking on the last word.

Matthew chuckled.

She looked up at him in shock, offended. How could he possibly laugh at a moment like this?

"Love is, by its very nature, unearned," he said, a sad kind of smile on his face. She flinched as he reached up to cup her cheek and he rubbed a thumb across it, calming her: a tear had escaped and he had brushed it away. She closed her eyes, but he wasn't done speaking yet. "I didn't fall in love with you because you deserved it."

"Then why did you?" she whispered.

He gave a breath of a laugh and she felt his forehead rest against hers as he put his hands on her upper arms. "Honestly? I don't know. You weren't anything like what I expected. I had never met anyone like you before."

"And what was I like?"

"A shock. A vision," he murmured. "In one instant summing me up and finding me wanting. And you were right."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. She had never confessed her own heart's leap at first seeing him; she hadn't given it a thought until this moment, in fact, but she remembered it now. His eyes had caught her. "You didn't make much of a second impression, I'll grant you that," she said. "Although you did a marvellous impression of a dead fish."

He pulled back with a laugh and she opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was half-smiling, half-frowning with curiosity. "An apt image: you speared me," he said, and then: " _Second_  impression?"

Her eyes widened as she realised her slip. She shrugged and glanced away, but when he remained silent, she braved a glance back up at him. He was fixing her in a look that managed to be smug and amused and affectionate and reproachful all at once.

There was no escaping him now.

"You weren't entirely what I had expected, either," she said finally, fighting a smile.

"Really?"

She moved her hands up to his face, letting her thumbs brush across his cheeks. She enjoyed the slight rasp against her palms and the way his arms slid so naturally to hold her in a loose embrace. "I was already angry at you and I was suddenly wrong-footed as well." She chuckled. "Thankfully, you immediately proceeded to demolish that first impression and I was relieved that you were like all the rest, and as easily dismissed." She paused and looked down at his shirt, drawing her hands away from his face and resting them on his chest. "Why did you still care for me, after the way I treated you?"

"Because it wasn't hard to see that underneath all those sharp edges, you were hurt and afraid," he said and then, with a smirk in his voice: "I'm a sucker for the plight of the downtrodden, remember?" Mary chuckled, still not looking at him. "Later, when there was no family to see, no audience to perform for, you were warm and candid with me. For all that you tried to hide yourself, Mary, you weren't very hard to see."

Mary frowned. "You speak so confidently now, but you didn't seem confident then."

"I wasn't sure at first," Matthew said. "I saw it, but I didn't know if it was just wishful thinking on my part." He chuckled. "It was partly my ego, I suppose. I didn't want to believe myself to be the sort of man who would fall in love with an unworthy woman."

Mary tried to chuckle, but it wouldn't come; the laughter stuck in her throat.  _An unworthy woman._

"What changed?" he asked.

She looked up at him. "Pardon?"

"If I was so easily dismissed, why weren't you just indifferent to me?"

"You weren't so easily dismissed," she said. She looked away with a smile, remembering. "You could match wits with me, and did. But there were none of the usual flirtations: no flattery, no small brushes of the hand, no double entendres spoken with presumed intimacy, nothing with which I was familiar. When we talked, it felt devoid of pretence; I found myself saying things that I would never have dreamed of speaking so plainly to anyone. I didn't know how to respond to you. You kept leaving me wrong-footed."

Matthew chuckled. "It was mutual, I assure you. And if I'd known you expected those things from me, I would have done them. I just didn't know the rules of your game."

"Perhaps it was for the best," she said. "Your ingenuousness made you shine by comparison."

He smiled.

"But it was the night that you explained how to break the entail that began it, I think," she said. "You told me I mattered."

His eyes softened. "You do."

She smiled sadly and looked down.

He nudged his lips against her cheek, seeking her mouth, and his arms tightened around her, but she pushed away, breaking from his embrace and shaking her head, keeping her hands on his chest to hold him back.

"What is this?" he demanded.

She met his eyes. "How can you want to kiss me after what I did to you?"

He gave a frustrated sigh and threw out his arms in a rough gesture, turning away from her with a shake of his head. He took a step back. "What do you want from me?" he asked, then turned to look at her. "Do you want me to hurt you in return? I refuse to do that, Mary. I love you! You're my wife! I could no more cut open my own body!"

"I don't know!" she said, throwing out her arms as well. "I want you to be angry with me! Something! This continual forgiveness is irritating. I don't deserve it! And don't you preach to me about how forgiveness is unearned, too."

He growled and held out his hands, palms up. "It is! That's why it's called 'forgiveness', not 'retaliation'!"

"I told you I took a lover and I enjoyed him! I'm not ashamed that I did it! How can you stand there as my husband and not feel angry at that?"

He frowned at her. "And how would  _you_  respond if I told you that I had taken a lover? Why can't you see that what you chose to do in the past, before  _this_ —" he gestured between them, "—isn't something I can hold against you?"

"But you're  _supposed_  to hold it against me!" she cried. "Aren't men only interested in virgins, not sluts?"

He stepped up to her suddenly and his face was dark with anger now. She felt a stab of fear and wondered what had possessed her to provoke him. She didn't want him to look at her like this! Would he handle her roughly?

—but of course he wouldn't. No: if he were to wound her, it would be with words, and those wounds would last longer than mere bruises. Her eyes widened as she took in his drawn brows and flared nostrils and the frustration rolling off his body, and she regretted her own anger, her foolishness at driving him to this.

"Don't. Call. Yourself. That." he bit out, glaring at her, keeping his arms stiffly at his sides. "Ever."

She pressed her lips together and tried to frown up at him, but a sting at the edges of her eyes and an involuntary twitch in her chin betrayed her. She set her jaw.

"But it's  _true_ ," she insisted, hating her weakness, hating the truth. She glared up at him. "And no amount of your forgiveness can change that!"

"It is  _not_  true," he shot back. "But you are right about one thing: my forgiveness is not enough."

"And what is, Matthew? What could possibly be enough? What's to stop me from kicking you off again the next time?"

He stopped moving, deflated, and looked at her now with eyes that were filled with pain. He reached for her.

"Mary—"

"We can't  _do_  this, Matthew," she said, her throat dry as she forced herself to speak the terrible truth. "I must not do that to you ever again." She turned and walked away, covering her mouth and nose with a shaking hand as she drew in a sharp breath. "I can't…"

He stood behind her in silence and she gathered herself, straightened her shoulders, wiped at her eyes, and then wiped her hands on her nightgown. She drew in a couple calming breaths and then turned around, not meeting his eyes.

"Your love for me might not be earned, but mine is not nearly so noble. You  _have_  earned my love." She looked at him now. "I release you. I trapped you with a lie and now you know the truth and you must see that we can't go on like this. You should be with someone who will be able to love you as you deserve."

"Stop talking such rubbish," he snapped. She blinked, surprised, and then grew angry again. Why wasn't he listening to her?

"Matthew—"

"Enough!" he said, advancing on her. "I made a promise to you and by God, I'm going to keep it! Does your promise to me mean nothing?"

She took an uncertain step back. "Of course it does! Your happiness means more to me than my own! That's why I'm releasing—"

"Rubbish," he growled. "If you cared a whit for my happiness, you'd do me the honour of  _listening_  to me!"

Mary glared at him. After several seconds of silence, he crossed his arms, still frowning.

"Well?" Mary asked, forcing her voice to be steady and lifting her chin.

Matthew sighed and looked down, then looked to the side and squinted. It took her a moment to realise that he was fighting tears. He gave a frustrated growl, uncrossing his arms and running both of his hands through his hair. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, looked at her with a pained expression.

"You asked me what I prayed for earlier," he began. His hands twitched as though he wanted to reach for her, but he looked away again. "I prayed for hope. I prayed for you to heal, to forgive yourself. I asked that you would know that you didn't have to live imprisoned by fear."

Mary's mouth had fallen open slightly while she listened to him; she closed it now and frowned.

"I prayed—" Here, inexplicably, Matthew laughed and shook his head, then looked at her. He closed his eyes. "I prayed that I wouldn't fall on you like that again, that I'd be able to keep my wits about me in future. I asked Him—" he laughed again and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I asked Him to give me ideas for how to do better next time, and—"

Gasping, he pulled his hands away from his eyes and Mary was shocked to see how wet they were, and all the more so for their being tears of laughter, not pain. How could he find any humour in this situation? She would have been offended if he'd been laughing at her, but he wasn't: he was laughing at himself, somehow. Instead, she was jealous and she frowned at him, impatient.

"—and,  _God_ —" Matthew pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, finally meeting her eyes. He dropped his hand and stepped towards her with a wide grin, chuckling. "— _did_  He!"

His words sent a sudden thrill of curiosity through her. Matthew saw the change in her expression and his smile turned maddeningly smug. He reached up slowly and when she did not flinch away, he ran his fingertips along her jaw, slipping his hand into her hair. She closed her eyes.

"He reminded me of so many moments when I'd been ashamed of myself."

Mary's eyes flew open and she frowned up at him. "What?"

His eyes were darkening again, she realised. His thumb stroked her ear. "You can be maddeningly distracting, darling," he said with a smile. "Sometimes, when I sat at dinner with your family and my interest in the conversation waned, I'd find myself watching you. You wouldn't be doing anything of particular note, but just watching you take a sip from your glass, or put your fork in your mouth—" He closed his eyes for a moment, a brief pain crossing his features, before he looked at her again. "I would suddenly wish— Well, it's probably best to show you…now that I can."

His maddening smile returned and she started to feel warm. How could he still do this to her? But of course he'd never stopped being able to and probably never would, she realised. He was her husband and she loved him, body and mind.

"And there were other moments," he continued. "Sometimes just walking behind you. The way you move…" He sighed and shook his head with a wry smile. "I would suddenly find myself filled with the urge to do something completely unacceptable. I thought I was going a bit mad, really, and I hoped no one else noticed. I used to be horrified at myself for what I was possessed to do. Which is why when you made it clear that you had no interest in me, I made myself scarce. It was partly because I was hurt, yes, but I was accustomed to that by then: the moments when we truly got on well were the rare ones, not the other way around—"

Here, she tried to drop her head, but he lifted her chin with his other hand, his finger curling gently under it, and he smiled at her as he spoke:

"But it was mostly because those urges were becoming more frequent the longer I knew you. I was ashamed of myself; the best way to handle them was to avoid you. They still happened, but not as often and at least you weren't nearby: there was no danger of my acting on them then."

Mary's mind spun at his words. The urges that she'd begun having after their engagement: could his be anything like hers? If he was ashamed of them, then perhaps she wasn't alone. Perhaps it was normal to feel this way if one was in love? The poets sometimes described love as madness. Was this what they meant?

"I used to dread these visions," he said. "Well, not  _them_ , exactly, they were far too appealing, but I disliked what they implied about who I was. No gentleman, certainly. Little better than an animal at times, it seemed." He laughed. "Until just now, when He reminded me of them…and said, 'Now. Have at it!'"

Mary giggled, curious and eager. "Me too."

Matthew frowned. "What?"

"I've had…urges…too."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yes." She felt her cheeks warming as she smiled, and she then remembered why she'd had those thoughts, and what it said about her past. Perhaps her thoughts were too base, even given what Matthew had said about his own. They made her recoil somewhat, as eager as she was to try them; what would he think of her if she revealed them? She couldn't bear the look of revulsion that would probably result.

"What's wrong?"

"Even if I'm not—that word—I'm still…damaged goods, Matthew," she said.

"Do you think I am without sin?" he asked.

The word stabbed at her and made her angry. It conjured a religious judgement and brought with it all of the strictures and stories of her childhood, her frustrations with its unverifiable and arbitrary nature, and the unthinking repetitions of Travis's answers to her questions. She had rejected all aspects of religion that seemed fanciful and unnecessary, although she saw the value of most of its principles—decency towards one's fellow man, that sort of thing—and she saw the usefulness of it in restraining society's darker tendencies, although it had been entirely inadequate to curbing her own and so seemed powerless, in truth. Certain lies were convenient. Church attendance was a necessity if one wished to be respectable, of course, but that was a purely practical motivation and not one that actually recommended religion to her.

She would never say any of this aloud, of course. She did not want anyone to think her a reprobate and she—in her more lonely moments—did not want what she knew to be true. But it was true and there was nothing for it but to carry on and do her best to muddle through, to make something of what she had at her disposal—which she was conscious of being quite substantial—and to hope that things worked out as best they could, without too many regrets in the end.

She would regret this failure with Matthew until the end of her days. His professions of love, although sweet, could not undo her body's automatic responses. She had not been in control of herself and she had thrown him off; how could they possibly move on from that, except to move apart from one another? For all of his "ideas", no matter how intriguing or fun they might be, they would inevitably end with him on top of her in some fashion and her tense with fear that she might lose control of herself and hurt him again. She could not possibly make love to him like that.

"Mary, talk to me, please," he said, his hands moving to her upper arms to caress them. "I can't bear to watch you like this."

Her eyes flew open; she couldn't recall closing them. "Like what?"

"Withdrawing from me," he said. "I'm here; let me in."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"I've already told you."

"Tell me again," he said.

She frowned at him. "I'm not good enough for you. Edith was right."

"No, she wasn't. Why do you think I'm too good for you?"

Mary shrugged and looked away. "You just…are. I've never seen you exchange a cross word with anyone. You didn't resent my family for uprooting you and your mother and dragging you into our lives, even after we—I—made an effort not to make you feel welcome." She looked up at him. "I truly believe that if you could give up the title, the estate, and all the wealth and influence that comes with it, you would. Not a man in a thousand would prefer that, but you do." She looked away again. "You didn't reject me when I told you…what I did. Not even now, even after—"

Her voice choked off with an unexpected sob and she covered her mouth with her hand.

He pulled her into his embrace and although she stiffened at first, she stayed in his arms as her shoulders shook. Her self-control was in tatters this evening.

"Just because you've never seen me exchange a cross word doesn't mean that I haven't done it," he said. "And how do you know I didn't resent your family? You heard my foolishness at our first meeting." She gave a breath of a laugh and closed her eyes when she felt his warm lips press against her hair. "God, what a fool I was," he murmured, then: "Still am." He loosened his hold on her and she stood back with a frown as he rested his hands on her upper arms again. "You're right about the title and the estate, but please don't think it's because of any high ideals on my part. I just don't relish the prospect of carrying the responsibility of maintaining it all." His smile became self-deprecating. "I'm just a middle-class lawyer from Manchester: what do I know of managing country estates and hobnobbing with lords and ladies? Can you imagine me, walking about with people addressing me as 'my lord' and all of that business?"

"Easily," she said with complete seriousness.

He paused and frowned. She smiled, feeling the urge to kiss him but restraining herself. The moment still felt too fragile, too easily broken. He shook his head and looked down with a dry laugh.

"I can't," he confessed. "I would always feel an impostor."

"You would do a lovely job," she said, smiling. "You're more a gentleman than most men who go by that name."

He blinked rapidly, his eyes suddenly damp.

"Thank you for that," he said thickly.

"It's no more than the truth, dar—" she cut herself off. She fell so easily into this with him: endearments and humour and…love. She loved him. She always would.

She looked down, unable to meet his eyes any longer.

"I know you don't think I understand," he said.

She looked up at him with a frown.

"I know you chose him," Matthew said. "I know you don't see what happened as simply a rape. From a certain point of view, you're right. Unfortunate situations are rarely the fault of only one person. I wouldn't have a profession if they were." He smiled. "I'm not under any illusions about you, Mary." He tilted his head to the side for a moment. "Well, at least not  _many_  illusions, I hope. I didn't marry you expecting it to be easy. And before you get upset over that: you should know by now that I enjoy a good argument…with you, especially."

His lips quirked up with the familiar tease and Mary found it impossible to resist a smile, but she at least had the wherewithal to look away from him briefly.

"He put you in an impossible situation," Matthew continued. "He convinced you that you were powerless to stop him. You thought you had only two choices left: let him have his way, thus giving up all control to him, which—" his eyes softened with a knowing humour, "—let us admit is not your strong suit—" She smirked at this, and then he sobered. "—or make a conscious choice to accept his attentions and reciprocate them."

She narrowed her eyes. He seemed to be saying no more than she had been saying all along, but she suspected that he was building some argument, waiting for her to accede to his points until he could deliver a logical blow that would fell all her objections to  _his_  point of view. She had married a lawyer, after all, but she felt strangely light of being, uncowed by his years of training, confident that she could rise to the challenge. She had spent far more time turning all of this over in her mind than he had; she stood ready to meet his next thrust and deflect it as she had all the others.

"Feeling powerless and in the grip of a monster is the stuff of nightmares," he said. "It is fear itself. To surrender to it is unthinkable, for there is no escape in surrender."

She swallowed, suddenly discomfited.

"You took the only path you could: you told yourself that you were choosing to take him as a lover," Matthew said.

"I  _did_  choose him," she said, annoyed at having to repeat herself.

"You did," he agreed, his voice soft and his expression pained. "But in so doing, you were forced to strike a terrible bargain."

Mary frowned. She couldn't see where he was going with this and she recoiled internally. She didn't want him to say any more, afraid of what his words might expose, but he was already speaking again.

"You were forced to believe that you are the sort of woman who  _would_  make such a choice. An unworthy woman."

Her heart was pounding, the sides of her mouth pulling down against her will. Her defiance came out in a whisper. "I  _did_. I  _am_."

" _No_ , Mary." Matthew's grip on her upper arms tightened. "It's a lie you tell yourself because you had no other recourse. It's a lie you find easy to believe because you've lived for so many years being told you were unworthy. That you weren't good enough to inherit the title and the Estate, to follow in your father's footsteps, to make him proud—"

Mary's breathing broke suddenly, sharp shards of pain stabbing her throat as she dragged in a convulsive breath and pressed a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and stinging as she stared at Matthew. She closed them, feeling tears push out as her shoulders began to shake. He gently drew her into his embrace and pressed his cheek to her hair. Her arms were trapped between them and she continued to shake silently. His hand rubbed slow circles on her back.

"It's not true, darling," he said softly after a short while, the warmth of his breath caressing her scalp and sending a pleasant tingle down her back. "Don't let your pain feel like the only truth. You are worth far more than you could ever know. And you are dearly loved."

Her chest felt full to the brim; it nearly hurt to breathe. Matthew had expressed a beautiful sentiment, one that she was desperate to believe, but it seemed to her that he was still simplifying too much...and yet, there was a searing, painful, healing truth in his words, too. She opened her eyes and shook her head against his chest, pulling back slightly.

"I can't forget the pleasure I took in it, Matthew," she said, swallowing down the rasp in her voice as she wiped at her eyes. "I was eager."

He reached up and took her face in his hands, lifting it until she was looking at him.

"As I told you before," he said. "You cannot hold yourself accountable for your physical responses. The feelings you experienced were new and unexpected and yes, probably very appealing. You said that you're afraid of fighting me off again. If that fearful response was involuntary, what of the pleasurable responses? Might they not be involuntary, too? Our bodies are marvellous creations, capable of a great many things that are not within our conscious control. Why can this not be among them?"

Mary frowned up at him, considering his words for a long moment. Finally, she sighed and sagged slightly. "I want to believe that what you say is true, Matthew, but I can't escape the memory of what I did, and how it felt to do it. I am not without fault in what happened. I could have chosen to resist him more strongly. I didn't."

"I'm far from perfect, myself," he said.

"Oh, I know  _that_ ," she said dryly, looking back up at him with a smile that quickly fell away. "But I can't imagine you committing any 'sin' as black as mine."

"Blacker," he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. "But I thought, after what you said, that you hadn't done…what we did…before."

He laughed and kissed her forehead. "Sexual sins are not the only kind, darling."

She snorted up at him in disbelief. "What, you've committed murder?"

He immediately grew serious, dropping his hands from her and twisting partly away. She followed him.

"You didn't!" she gasped.

He looked up with a frown, distracted. "What? No! No…"

She stared at him with growing concern. "What is it?"

His gaze was fixed on the middle distance; he seemed almost unaware of her for a moment. "I don't want to," he whispered.

She was initially confused and then she realised:  _the war_. She felt a chill as she stared at his face, horrified that she had forgotten. As she watched his features close up, she was afraid of what the war would do to him. Her gentle, beautiful husband would find himself in the midst of horrors that she could only imagine. She wished for him to return to her safe and sound, but what if he lived through it and returned changed? What would the war do to him? Her father had come through the Boer War seemingly unscathed, but he never talked of his experiences. The one time she had asked him as a child, she remembered the warmth leaving his face and how he had turned stiffly away from her, unable to speak. Mama had quickly ushered her from the room and told her never to speak of it again. The chill remained even now, as Mary watched Matthew face the unknown. He would have to walk into it alone; it was not a place that she could go. She felt with a sudden intensity that these might be the last days that she ever saw him and she did not want to spend them estranged from him.

Even if she could not be his lover, she wanted to be his comfort and she felt utterly inadequate to the task. She went close to him and touched his shoulder. He blinked and returned to her, drawing her into his embrace with a sigh. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him. He was brave, and so afraid: she could feel it. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to give this up, not for her own shame or for some stupid political conflict. It was too precious, too rare, too valuable.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He pressed his lips against her hair again and his arms tightened around her briefly.

"I know."

She released a pent-up breath and looked up at him with one eyebrow raised. "So what was it? Did you covet your neighbour's ass?"

He laughed. "No." He frowned, relaxing his arms. "I don't think it's even one of the Ten Commandments. It's more insidious than that."

"Worse than breaking one of the Commandments? Now you really must tell me!" she joked.

He smiled and reached down to take her hand in his.

"Would you mind terribly if we finished this conversation in bed?" he asked. "This might take a while and it's getting rather late. It's been a long day."

"Of course," she said, starting to move back into the bedroom, and he followed, a smile pulling at his lips. "We can finish it tomorrow, if you wish."

"No, now is fine. I just want to relax if we're to continue it."

She smiled at the prospect of being allowed to sleep beside him after all. She released his hand as he moved round the bed. She had started to turn down the sheets when her stomach gurgled and she frowned, then suddenly brightened.

"What?" he asked, watching her unexpectedly dart across the room.

She pulled open the door a crack and peeked out. The hallway was deserted and—  _Yes!_  She lifted the dessert tray from the side-table nearby, then carefully slipped back into the room and pushed the door closed behind her, grinning.

His eyes lit up as she handed the tray to him. She climbed on to the bed and sat down. He stood beside the bed holding the tray in a comical fashion as he frowned, confused.

"What am I to do with this?" he asked.

"Give it here," she answered.

"You mean to eat on the bed?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

He glanced about the room, then chuckled and shook his head. He set the tray down carefully and she pulled it towards herself, beckoning to him to join her.

"I feel like a child who's stolen a biscuit," he said, climbing on to the bed and settling down across from her.

"Not a bad analogy," she answered, as she lifted the covers off the two plates to reveal two pieces of decadent-looking chocolate cake. She hummed her approval.

He picked up the decanter of port and looked at it. "I'm not sure about this," he said.

She smiled and selected a plate and a fork, picking them up and making herself comfortable. "If you can drink wine from a water-glass, you can certainly eat dessert on a bed."

He gave her a smiling, provocative look, and poured them both a glass. "To be honest, I rather thought we'd already  _had_  dessert on the bed."

She laughed. "A fair point. Although I think this might offer a better ending."

"Mary," he sighed. "What you did was a shock, certainly, but it was entirely understandable and I  _thoroughly_  enjoyed myself up until the moment I unthinkingly hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me," she said.

"Frightened you, then," he said, picking up his own plate and fork. "I am so sorry about that. It was a novice's mistake. It won't happen again."

"I know," she said. "And I don't blame you, really I don't." She paused, watching him cut a piece of his cake. "Do you really think there's a way to prevent it happening again?"

He quickly looked up at her, serious, and then he smiled and something warmed in her.

"I  _know_  there is," he grinned. "More than one, in fact."

Her body gave a pleasant squeeze and tingled in anticipation. She could only smile at him, so she took a bite of cake, then closed her eyes and hummed. It was delicious: moist, dark, bittersweet. Mrs Andrews really was an excellent cook.

Matthew chuckled and Mary opened her eyes. "What?" she asked.

He swallowed his own mouthful and grinned. "You. You're beautiful."

Her neck and cheeks felt warm and she smiled and quickly looked down, then cleared her throat and cut off another piece of cake. She raised her eyebrows and looked up at him.

"So? What's this terrible sin you've committed?"

"Ah," he nodded, settling back. "What was the one thing that Jesus condemned, repeatedly?"

"Are you to take up sermon-making now?"

He smiled. "If I must."

She set down her fork and put a finger to her lips, hummed in mockingly-deep thought, and then paused, seriously considering his question. "The Pharisees?"

Matthew nodded. "More specifically, the hypocrisy of the religious leaders. He didn't rail against the more obvious sins. Do you recall? They criticised him for eating with the sinners: the prostitutes and thieves and tax collectors and such."

Mary nodded, taking up her fork again. "Go on."

"That was me," he said. "Self-righteous." He took another bite of cake.

She smiled. "You  _can_  be a bit of a prig."

Matthew chuckled and swallowed. "Yes, clearly I still need some work."

She shrugged. "So you thought too highly of yourself and appeared to treat the people around you well, even though you had little patience with them. Welcome to the human race. That's not blacker than what I did."

"No, it is," he said, gesturing with his fork and forcefully reminding her of his middle-class upbringing. "Don't you see: you at least could recognise what you'd done. It was obvious and you immediately felt the consequences of it. Me? I persisted in a wrong-headed fashion for years, unable to clearly see myself. I thought I was in the right."

Mary frowned at him. "Weren't you? The way your mother speaks of you, she makes you seem an ideal son."

He shook his head. "I looked it, certainly. I obeyed my parents, worked hard at school, didn't bring shame on my family. I could recount all of the classic Bible stories and recite my mother's favourite verses and answer the catechism."

"So? What was wrong with that?"

"In those particular things, nothing. But I never understood my mother's passion for it, or why my father actually  _chose_  to sit and read the Bible when he had the rare time to read. Sometimes I'd enter his study to find a new book or some such thing and there he'd be, just reading the pages, savouring it. He had so little time to himself: why did he spend it doing that? I'd had to read it myself, of course, but I had no desire to  _pore_  over it, especially when I was alone and there was no one else to see me." He grinned rakishly at her. "There were far more interesting tales to enjoy, such as things about naked virgins being chained to rocks."

She smirked at him and he chuckled.

"But I didn't give it a second thought; my parents were traditional. I was interested in advancing myself through intellectual pursuits, moving in my own direction."

Mary nodded. "Hence the legal profession, not medicine."

He smiled and nodded. "Precisely."

"So what's wrong with that? Most children don't want to repeat their parents' mistakes."

"I'm  _getting_  there, my impatient wife," Matthew said with a smile, quickly swallowing another bite of cake. He set down his plate and fork on the tray and licked his lips. "I didn't notice anything was wrong until Harry's father died."

"Harry?"

"My best mate at school," Matthew said. "His father died about two years before my own. Awful thing; it was a terrible accident at his factory. It was Harry's first day back at school after it happened, and he disappeared during lunch. I went looking for him and found him hiding, crying. I remember looking at him and thinking, 'I ought to comfort him. Do something.' But instead, I just stood there staring at him—he hadn't noticed me there—and not feeling anything. Nothing. I knew his father had died, but I didn't feel even a pang of sadness. It was as though I were dead inside, just frozen and watching this scene. I was more disturbed by my lack of feeling than I was by his pain—and then  _that_  disturbed me: I was so self-absorbed. I turned and walked away. He and I were different after that."

Mary frowned, listening to this recital. She could remember similar scenes with Edith. This lack of feeling had never disturbed her: Mary had merely thought herself stronger than her sister for not being such a crybaby. She wasn't sure that Matthew was right to be concerned about his response; she didn't think that she should suddenly start caring so much about others' pain all the time. It sounded exhausting.

"I went on like this, not sure what to do, if anything," Matthew said. "I certainly never told anyone about it. And then my own father started to fall ill. My parents tried to hide it from me for as long as possible, but eventually I confronted him and he admitted it." Matthew paused a moment, then sighed. "It was a slow decline. It went on for nearly a year after I learned of the cancer, and I watched him…die. Painfully. I felt something then: anger. I was consumed with it. I hated God. He was either powerless or He didn't exist at all. Mother's prayers were useless, all the good behaviour I'd saved up was worth nothing—my prayers had no effect either. I might as well have done what I wanted all along, for all the good it did me when it mattered. Father was a truly  _good_  man and I loved him and yet he was still suffering. Where was the justice in that? I remember that it felt endless and my anger joined with despair. I couldn't bear to hear Mother spouting platitudes and empty assurances about God's plan and all that rot." He sighed again. "I didn't realise it at the time, but I think my behaviour caused my parents more pain than his illness did. I was showing them my true colours, and they weren't pretty."

Mary set down her plate and fork quietly. Matthew continued, not seeming to notice her action.

"One night, she roused me and told me to put on my robe and then she led me downstairs. They'd decided to keep him home rather than in hospital, so he could be with us until the end, so I knew where we were going."

Matthew's face tightened and Mary ached to hold him close, her throat thick as she imagined the scene. He was allowing her to see into a dark, private place and she held her breath and listened.

"Father was—" Matthew's voice caught, but he pressed on. "— _so_  thin. His skin was like paper and it bruised so easily. I remembered him teaching me how to ride, us going out together on weekends in the country, and now…he couldn't even lift his arm. His voice was raspy, but he still sounded himself, somehow. He took my hand and held it so tightly that he surprised me; I hadn't thought him strong enough for that, but he looked at me and squeezed my hand, and said, 'Don't hate God, son. Please. Promise me you'll  _seek_  Him instead.'" Matthew laughed bitterly. "I didn't want to make that promise. I had no desire to keep it. But how could I look him in the eye and refuse?" Matthew paused. "It was no matter; I was never able to respond. He had used up all his breath just to speak those words to me, and then he'd started coughing. His whole body shook, and Mother wiped away blood and I just sat there and blubbed like a child. I hated it, I hated God, I even hated Father for asking this of me when I couldn't say no. I wanted to hit something, throw something, kick something, scream at something, and I think I would have done it, too, if Mother hadn't suddenly gasped and touched his neck and I knew in one instant that he was gone."

Matthew's voice had broken and he curled in on himself and Mary saw him shake. She climbed quickly round the tray and settled beside him, putting her arms around him from behind. He sat very still for a long moment and then she felt him bring himself back under control. He wiped at his face with his hands. "Sorry."

"Blub all you like," Mary said softly, kissing a wet track on his cheek. She rested her head on his shoulder and held him. He twisted and slipped his arm around her, resting his cheek against her head, and was quiet for a short while. Finally, he said:

"His words haunted me, of course. I didn't have one moment when everything was one way and then it all magically changed in the next, but over time, here and there, little moments, something someone said, something Mother did—or didn't do—and I found myself feeling hungry. Feeling as though I were missing something: something deep, something underneath all of the things I'd learned to do to  _appear_  good. Something that would make them genuine. Something that gave my parents strength. I didn't know what I was missing; I just had an uneasy feeling that I was. I didn't know how to find it, or even name it. All I knew was that, for the first time, I recognised that I was a fraud." He paused as he watched her reach for a glass of port. "Am I boring you?"

"Only a little," Mary answered, and Matthew chuckled. "Go on," she said. "You've not told me much of your life before coming to Downton. Even if I must endure a sermon," she smirked at him, "I enjoy listening to you speak."

Matthew raised an eyebrow, smiling. "So I would do just as well to read the dictionary to you?"

"No," she said, taking a sip of port. She made a face and set it back down again. "I've certainly sat through drier sermons than this one. But don't give up your position at—what was the name of your firm?"

"Harvell and Carter," Matthew said dryly, then: "Speaking of which, I have some paperwork I'll need you to post. I had intended to visit the office before we left Downton, but I just realised that it's still on my desk at Crawley House."

"Of course," Mary said. "What is it?"

Matthew reached for the other glass. "Oh, just some receipts and notes concerning a will that I was working on. They'll know what to do with it."

"I should hope so," Mary said, "for I certainly won't."

"Oh, I don't know," Matthew said with a smile. "Robert and I are agreed that you would have made a formidable earl if you'd been given the chance." He savoured the port for a moment.

Mary smiled at him, but felt the old sourness inside. She moved away, sliding off the bed and picking up the tray. The cake was unfinished, but she didn't feel much like eating it anymore and neither did he, it appeared. Matthew frowned and swung his legs off the bed.

"I'm sorry; that was crass of me," he said, watching her set the tray down by the door.

"No," she sighed. "It is just…what is."

"It's terribly wrong that you should be prevented from making something of yourself just because you're a woman." He stood up with his glass of port.

Mary turned and raised an eyebrow at him as he approached. "Who says I haven't made anything of myself?"

He squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace. She laughed and stretched up to kiss him. He opened his eyes with a sigh as she pulled away, her own expression becoming serious.

"I haven't, really," she said. "There hasn't been much need, of course, and then it would have been frowned upon…"

"But you're my wife now," he said, with no small measure of pride in his voice. "If you want to do something, you're free to do it. You said once that you envied that I had somewhere to go each day. If you want to find that place for yourself, you should. It's becoming more common for women to attend university these days."

Mary shot him a sceptical look. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" he shrugged. "I did."

"There's a war on, Matthew. I could hardly spend it in some ivory tower."

He finished another swallow of the port and fixed her in a look. "Is that a real reason, or just an excuse?"

She frowned up at him. "I don't particularly want to attend university. Why ever would I? I don't need a profession."

"I'm not saying that you do," he said, setting down the glass and straightening again as she moved away. "I'm merely saying that the world is your oyster. I may be gone, but that doesn't mean you must simply move into a new waiting room."

"I may have already," Mary answered, returning to the bed and climbing under the covers. Matthew frowned. She gave him an exasperated look. "I may be with child. I can't possibly make any life-changing decisions until I know for certain."

"Of course…" Matthew said in an altered tone, and he stopped moving. His frown deepened and he looked to the side.

"Come to bed," she said, patting the covers beside her.

He continued frowning as he came to the bed. "Would you mind if I put out the light?"

"No," she answered, and covered a yawn, following it with an embarrassed smile. She'd never yawned in front of him before. He yawned a moment later and then smiled tentatively at her as he reached for the lamp.

"Are you all right on that side?" she asked, gesturing, suddenly conscious that they might be establishing a pattern that would last the rest of their lives. She wanted to be on the side that was nearer the bathroom.

"I prefer it," he answered, tugging back the covers and climbing under them. "You?"

"Yes." She straightened her covers and then spent a few moments learning how to fit against him, prompting a few grunts from him as she did so and quickly murmuring apologies each time. He just chuckled and when she finally settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder and draped an arm and a leg over him, he gave a long sigh of contentment. She revelled in his warmth and the length of his body. He would come in handy on the colder winter nights; she'd always thought it a shame that full-length hot-water bottles didn't exist.

After a minute of their enjoying this novel sensation in silence, Matthew said:

"I'm so sorry that I have to leave you."

"I know," she said. "So what was it you were saying about being a fraud?"

He frowned and pulled back from her. She quickly put out a hand.

"Please, I just meant for you to continue your story. I wasn't…bitter."

He relaxed somewhat and nodded, but she saw that the unintended meaning had left him uneasy. As he returned to lying on his back, she moved to her previous position curled against him. "Go on," she said. "I'm not bored, truly."

He gave a sad sort of chuckle. "Well, at least there's that." He sighed and did not continue his story. She waited. He reached up with his free hand and ran it down the length of his face, then let the hand fall to the bed. "God, Mary, I'm so sorry. I should never have done this to you, rushing you into a wedding and then leaving directly after. I wasn't thinking about children when I asked you to move up the date, just about being with you. But now—"

Mary rubbed his chest. "It will be all right," she murmured. "I'll have our whole family to smother me with advice and demands to have a lie down; you won't even be missed."

He laughed, then grew sober. "The enlistment officer said that my first leave wouldn't be permitted until nearly a year from now. I wouldn't even be able to be there for the birth."

"And what use would you be if you were? You could wear a path in the carpet and drink some of Papa's brandy, perhaps, and you could do that just as well after the birth as before it."

He laughed again. "How can you joke about this?"

She rose up on one elbow. "What else is there to do? Mourn something that hasn't even happened yet and might never?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Good. Because I am. Now," she said, settling back down beside him again. "If you don't return to your story soon, I probably  _will_  fall asleep before you finish it."

He chuckled and squeezed her with a fond growl. "Very well! Since you insist. Now, where was I?"

"Fraud."

"Right. So I realised I was a fraud. I was at Radley and I couldn't very well stop attending chapel; it's required. But I found myself listening in a different way: instead of nodding and thinking that I was already doing that—whatever the sermon was about—I was doubting myself, doubting whether there any point to even doing it, wondering why I was even sitting in the pew. I still couldn't bring myself to reject all that I'd been taught as a child, but I didn't believe in it all, either. It was a very uncomfortable place.

"I carried on in this fashion, not wanting to disappoint my mother, keeping my doubts and dissatisfaction to myself. I  _wanted_  to be the sort of man who would make her—and Father—proud. I knew that if I at least behaved well, I wouldn't cause her more pain, and I did it for that reason. But I felt desperately soul-hungry and I tried to fill it with intellectual accomplishments. I finished top of my class and made her proud in that way at least.

"Oxford was an entirely different set. There was a chap on my floor whom I often studied with, Tom, who, in addition to being brilliant at the law, was one of those irritating types who gets far too passionate about religion and assumes everyone else is as well—and if you're not, you ought to be." Mary chuckled at his words. "When he'd asked where I stood, I'd answered correctly, of course, and he'd assumed I was with him, which at least spared me the tiresome proselytising, but got me into some rather sticky pickles when we were out together." He laughed. "Stories for another day. In any case, he had brought practically an entire library with him: Amy Carmichael's letters, Hudson Taylor's biography, Spurgeon's sermons, that sort of thing. When I reluctantly confessed that I hadn't read them all, he pressed them on me. He was convinced that God wanted him to become a foreign missionary, defending the persecuted, and he was to do everything he could to prepare."

Mary made a sympathetic sound. "Tiresome, indeed."

"It was, at first. But reading Carmichael was like seeing into a foreign land—and I don't just mean India, I mean a foreign view of existence. All the familiar words were there and in the usual order, but the degree of surrender, commitment, passion, conviction…it was unlike anything I'd encountered before. And more than that…she spoke as though God were a real person, standing beside her. Perhaps it was the quality of a woman's voice, I don't know. There was a kind of everyday intimacy, a humour even, in knowing Him and being known by Him. I'd never seen that before: I'd just seen all the good deeds you were supposed to do and the right ways of thinking that you were supposed to adhere to."

"And that was when the magic moment happened?" Mary yawned. She really  _was_  trying to listen, but it was getting late and she was warm and comfortable and she'd caught herself starting to drift. She couldn't recall what had prompted him to recount this story; where was he going with it? More and more, the moment that she'd been looking forward to all day, of falling asleep in his arms, was looking especially appealing.

Matthew chuckled and rubbed her arm. "No. As I said, there  _was_  no one magic moment. Just conversations with Tom, my tutors, various friends, and the like. As I said, Oxford was an entirely different set: people aren't shy about questioning Christianity and espousing other belief systems. It's fortunate that a study of the law includes making a study of philosophy as well. I found that it became not only a professional pursuit, but also a personal one."

"…and?" she prompted, stifling another yawn. "I'm not bored, really. Just wondering where you're going with this."

"You're tired," Matthew said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be nattering on like this. In short, I found myself doing exactly what I remembered my father doing: studying the Bible whenever I could. Of course, I was studying other sources as well, but I found what I was looking for in the Bible."

"And what was that?"

"Peace. Hope. The way to come to life and genuinely care about others, not just appear to care about them for as long as they are of use to me. Forgiveness." He pulled away slightly and looked at her. "My forgiveness can't heal you, Mary, but His can."

It all sounded vague and fanciful to her, of no more import than any of the sermons she'd sat through in her life. He might as well have told her to visit Oberon for all the good it would do her. But he clearly expected something, so she smiled and made a thoughtful humming sound and nodded, then returned to her resting place. He could believe what he wished; she was just glad for this moment, for the fact that she was warm and comfortable and  _in his arms_ , that he hadn't put her away after her shameful behaviour. Perhaps they  _could_  find some way to make this work. The love of God might be an abstraction, but Matthew was real, and she would enjoy him for as long as they had together. Although it would be nice if Matthew's words were true. A comforting illusion, perhaps, but it would be nice…to not…be afraid…any longer.

She yawned and cuddled closer to his warmth, smiling as he rubbed her arm and hummed contentedly, the low sound vibrating in his chest.


	13. Chapter 13

_13_

Mary pulled the curtain aside a few inches, just enough to see outside without flooding the bedroom with light. She looked down at the trees and gardens of Eaton Square, quiet in the cool grey morning light. A pair of gardeners worked in the square, one tending a flower bed, the other pushing a mower back and forth across the lawn at a steady pace. Further down the street, she saw another gardener moving amongst the shrubbery. Watching as the city roused itself, her heart lifted with the promise of a new day, as it always did when she awoke on a morning in London. She never seemed to struggle to awaken while in the city; it captured her imagination and beckoned to her.

Although, she mused as she watched the mower reach the end of another row and turn around once again, her last visit to London had been difficult to endure. She'd known of the whispers and she'd encountered a wall of cool politeness at nearly every turn. There were those who would never forget the rumours, but thank heavens for Matthew. Now that they were wed, the cruel tales were of little import to anyone. Business as usual could resume: extending invitations, paying calls, maintaining the old connections and forging new ones.

If her mother's child were a boy, the old connections would be farther out of her reach now, unless she and Matthew were in the company of her parents or grandmother. Mary herself would always be welcome, to a certain extent, but only as a courtesy to her father. Matthew would be treated as little more than an odd footnote in the family's history, his presence tolerated but not sought. There was no point in being angry about this reality; Society's unspoken rules had preserved it for centuries and tradition could not be easily discarded. Exceptions could not be made without sufficient reason, and merely marrying the daughter of an earl did not qualify. Although Mary herself would never be explicitly shunned, her company would also not be in great demand, unless Matthew came into a fortune. Money certainly could not buy a position in Society, but it could make some pathways in more acceptable.

Mary pressed her lips together, watching as the mower navigated around a tree and straightened out. For all of Matthew's admirable qualities, she was quite certain that being fabulously wealthy would never be among them. They might, someday, manage to procure a fine house in London, but it would not be in Belgravia or Mayfair, or even Kensington. Perhaps Chelsea would do. She would certainly make the best of it and truly, they would be comfortable, but the reality of her decision to marry a solicitor was beginning to settle upon her. She was not unhappy with her choice—how could she be? She was still living the life to which she was accustomed—but if she were honest with herself, she did have some qualms about their future security and she harboured an urge to find a way back into the good graces of Society. The thought of being excluded, pitied, or secretly mocked stung her more than she cared to admit. She knew how she would have responded, only a scant two years earlier, to the news of another young Lady marrying below her station. From a certain point of view, it seemed the height of foolishness.

But she could not bring herself to regret her choice. It was  _Matthew_.

She wished that she could fully embrace the purity of his idealism, but valid questions and worries would always remain. Principles would not pay the bills, nor ensure safety and comfort for a growing family. She was confident that he could provide a stable foundation for a home and that he would dedicate himself to doing just that, but what foolishness might she have to contend with over the years? His ideals had led him to pledge himself to fight in a war that he did not need to fight; he could very well die for his vaunted principles, and then all of her present musings would be moot. There would be no foundation at all, then.

She frowned in irritation. His decision still seemed selfish to her, not selfless, despite the reasons he'd given for it. He put the dictates of his conscience above the life that lay before him, above  _her_. She knew he loved her, but what did that sentiment really mean in the face of his actions? He would be gone, and who knew for how long? The papers seemed certain that the whole affair would be done with by Christmas, but a great deal could happen in four months. She ached at the thought of losing him. When had this begun, this sense that she was more whole when she was with him? It had started before the wedding, before the garden party...perhaps even before the night he'd proposed. Their marriage had been a public acknowledgement of something that had already been true between them. And now it was not just a public acknowledgement, but an intensely private one as well.

She pressed her hand to her lips, remembering their recent lovemaking. Discounting how it had ended, it had been rather better than she'd expected and she smiled at the provoking memories and the promise of more. Then she frowned. She couldn't discount the ending. Would any of his "ideas" truly help? The old nightmare was too deeply rooted within her to be removed by merely a different approach. She felt anxious at the prospect of trying again, even as she ached to touch him, to  _feel_  him once more.

A flicker of light across his face roused Matthew and he opened his eyes groggily, annoyed at being awakened so abruptly. His annoyance quickly faded at the sight that greeted him, however: Mary, letting the curtain fall closed behind her as she turned around. He watched her in awe as she came towards him. She was naked, tall, and stunning, her movements lithe and her breasts round and so perfectly shaped. His hands—no, he chuckled to himself,  _the whole of his body_ —ached to touch her. He realised his mouth was hanging open and he closed it, looking up at her face as she slipped back into bed.

"Good morning," he said, unable to stop a smile from taking over his features.

She gave a slight start. "Oh—!"

She paused in her efforts with the sheet as she looked at him with wide eyes. They'd thrown off the rest of the covers and their pyjamas sometime during the warm summer night, made warmer by the novelty of their sharing a bed and the desire to remain in contact much of the time. He'd thought that perhaps merely resting beside one another, growing accustomed to each other's bodies, might help her to be more comfortable with the prospect of trying again. He didn't want to rush her, and yet, oh he very much did! He held himself still, watching her as she settled down beside him again. Not touching him, he noticed.

Her expression softened into a shy smile. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I hadn't meant to wake you."

"I don't mind in the slightest," he said, still grinning.

Her eyes moved up from his face and he held his breath a moment as her hand reached for his temple, and then he closed his eyes and relaxed as her fingers began to play with his hair. When he opened his eyes again a few moments later, he saw a small, mysterious smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.

"What is it?" he asked.

She gave a delicate shrug. "I like seeing you like this." Her fingers stroked his scalp, smoothing the locks back. "Your hair mussed with sleep."

He smiled and shifted on to his side, facing her but still not too close to her, and he reached out to touch her waist.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

She made a face. "Excepting the fact that there was a large body generating a hearth's worth of heat lying close beside me all night, yes."

He drew his hand back, slightly hurt. She giggled and cupped his cheek, drawing his face in for a kiss.

"What am I always telling you, darling?" she said. "You must pay no attention to the things I say!"

She chuckled and kissed him again and he sighed, forgiving her, and returned his hand to her waist. She drew back with a mischievous smile.

"You must know that the solution you proposed has been quite...lovely."

"Truly?" he asked, searching her face.

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed, and ran her hand down on to his chest. She met his eyes. "I was just teasing about being too warm." She looked at where her fingers were stroking his chest hair. "Besides, I quite like being able to keep my toes warm throughout the night. Hot water bottles are always so disappointing after a few hours' time."

He mock-shivered and glanced towards their feet. "I confess to being amazed that you can feel so warm and yet your toes seem to think it perpetually winter-time. Why don't you just wear socks?"

"Because then my feet would grow too warm; it's summer-time. I thought you wouldn't mind my snuggling closer to you."

He gave her a look. "I wouldn't have, if you'd limited your toe-warming activities to my feet. It was when you began to crawl up my calves that I objected."

"But your skin is warmer than your socks. Which, I might point out, are still on your feet. Didn't you say something about how every garment ought to be removed?" Her face was cool and composed, but her fingers were dancing a maddening reel over his skin, arousing him further.

"You granted me an exception," he said with a playful pout.

"Which you demanded as a concession to my toes," Mary replied.

"You were  _running them up under my trousers!_ " he said, pretending to be put out.

"But I didn't do it  _intentionally_ ," she said. "I was asleep at the time."

"Irregardless," he began, but paused when he saw a sudden flash of horror in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I  _detest_  that word," she said.

He frowned, half amused. "What word?"

" _That_  word." She intoned this last as though she would not dignify whatever the travesty was by actually uttering it herself.

"'Irregardless'?" he repeated. "Why ever would you detest it?"

"Because it's not a real word!" Mary hissed.

"It most certainly is," he said, enjoying watching her hackles rise over so petty a thing and prodding her further by purposely remaining calm. "I read it in the papers only last week."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "Were they quoting an American?"

Matthew blinked and frowned, taking a moment to recall the story. "Now that you mention it...yes, I suppose they were."

"And since when do we take our linguistic cues from the  _Americans?_ " Mary demanded.

"How very snobbish of you," he said with a laugh. "They speak English, too."

"Not the King's English," she shot back. "Which is the only proper one." She lifted her chin, clearly pleased with herself, convinced that she had won the argument.

"Irregardless—" he began, and then he giggled at the look of horror on her face.

"Matthew, so help me God...!" she growled. "How can you call yourself an Englishman?"

She stopped moving her hand over his skin and pressed a balled fist against his chest, frustration etched on her face, clearly unsure of what punishment she could inflict. She settled for a look of intense censure and he merely grinned. It reminded him of the look she'd shot him last night, when he'd goosed her as they ascended the stairs. It was an expression that urged him on to more, not less, of whatever behaviour she was reproaching him for.

But it would not do to provoke her further right now: he wanted their first morning as a married couple to finish peacefully—and hopefully, very pleasurably—not end with them at odds with one another. They had enough obstacles to overcome as it was.

He softened his grin into a smile and reached up to touch her cheek. "You're so beautiful when you're annoyed," he said. "If you want to prevent me poking fun, you shall have to produce a different response next time."

She arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "I suspect you would say that no matter the response I produced."

"Mmm," he said with a smirk. "That's true enough." He leaned in and kissed her and she lifted her mouth to meet his. They both gave a small sigh as they parted and then she eagerly met him again.

He let his hand trail up over the swell of her hip and he rested his palm there, gauging her response. She wasn't drawing away, so he slid his hand back over her haunches and pulled himself against her, knowing she would feel his arousal. She gave a small gasp of surprise, breaking their kiss, and her eyes widened. She was pulling back against his hand. He kept his eyes locked on hers and rubbed his hand gently over her bottom, not demanding anything. Her hands remained between them, resting—pushing slightly—against his chest.

Something changed in her eyes and she did relax against him then. She moved to kiss him and he let her, but she was silent as she did it. He could almost feel her resolve to answer his unspoken request, but stubborn determination was not what he wanted her to have. Peaceful, relaxed abandon seemed a far better goal. He gently broke the kiss and lifted his hand up to stroke her hair. She lay against the pillow, watching him.

"Close your eyes," he said.

She frowned, then swallowed and complied.

He rose up on one elbow, leaned forward—felt her tense—and whispered "I love you" in her ear. She shivered and gave a tiny sob and put her hand over her mouth. He placed a chaste kiss on her cheek, then settled back down beside her, rubbing her back in what he hoped was a soothing fashion.

"Do you believe I would ever willingly hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes still closed.

"Or that I would ever demand that you engage in an act that makes you uncomfortable?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him. She'd drawn her hand away from her mouth while he was speaking, and now she pressed her lips together and frowned.

"It would be within your right," she said, swallowing.

 _So many young women, and too many of them wives._  His mother's words echoed in his mind.

"No," he said. "It wouldn't."

She pressed her lips together again, blinking. Then her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"First question," he said. "Do you even want to try again?"

"Yes!" she said quickly, then coloured. He couldn't resist kissing her at that, in relief and amusement.

"All right." He was grinning now, but he quickly sobered. "If I understand correctly, we just need to find a way to prevent me becoming a dead weight. That should be easy enough: I'll just hold myself up after I finish."

"Could you really do that?" she asked.

"Yes, it shouldn't be difficult."

She swallowed and nodded, but he could see that she wasn't convinced.

_Remember._

The image of the boys in the attic suddenly flashed into his mind. He frowned.  _Would that even work? Would she be put off?_

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm just thinking."

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "About your 'ideas'?"

He smirked. "Yes. One in particular." He glanced down at their bodies, thinking. There was nothing for it but to try. He just dreaded the thought of revealing this idea and being rebuffed.

"Matthew..." she said, rubbing her hand against his side.

He looked at her. "Yes?"

"I'm not sure I can do this." She frowned and looked down. "The moment you start to rest your weight on me again, even if you weren't resting all of it, I might—" she swallowed. "I'm afraid I might start to panic. Just the thought..."

He stroked her hair. "I know."

"So how can we...?"

"What if there might be a way to do this without my ever resting any of my weight on you?"

She frowned. "What is it?"

"We could lie side-by-side instead."

Her eyebrows rose but then she frowned. "I don't think that would work." She swallowed. "I might not be able to raise my leg for that long."

"It couldn't hurt to try," he said, realising that her objection would apply whether her front or her back were facing him, and his heart fell a bit.

"No, I suppose not."

"But the prospect doesn't excite you."

She wrinkled her nose, which was terribly cute and the sight made him smile. "Not really, no."

"All right," he said slowly, thinking. Perhaps they might only have the one option. "We could stand."

She frowned. "Stand? While making love?"

"Certainly," he said. "Why not? We're both young and healthy and in full command of our legs." He grinned, warming to the prospect. "Shall we have a go?"

She chuckled, her eyes dancing with excitement. "I should like that very much, I think," she said. They sat up beside one another with matching grins as she pushed the sheet down. She stood gracefully and quickly moved to stand in the middle of the floor.

He rose, smiling all the while, and strolled towards her. Her willingness to trust him and try again seemed a small victory in itself, and he was proud of her.

"You are so handsome," she murmured, her hands reaching for him. He grinned. At the last moment, he eluded her grasp and slipped behind her with a quick movement. He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her shoulder as she gave a cry of surprise and then fell to giggling with her hands covering her mouth.

Her laughter tapered off a moment later when he splayed a hand on her abdomen and pulled himself firmly against her, his other arm sliding up to fit under her breasts. The feeling of her bottom pressed against his hips was the most lovely thing—

"Ohhh..." she said, and slid against him a moment. He groaned and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder, his body responding automatically.

She tugged her head and he realised that her hair was caught between them. He loosened his grasp and allowed her to pull her head forward as he took the opportunity to breathe through the sudden flare of arousal and consider his approach.

"Matthew?" she asked, twisting slightly to look at him.

"I'm just curious as to whether I could enter you from behind."

Mary wriggled stiffly out of his grasp and straightened. Matthew frowned and moved to face her.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She rubbed her arms, her brows pulled down. "I wish you wouldn't say such things." Her eyes flickered briefly at him. "It makes me uncomfortable."

Matthew's heart sank and he immediately felt a rush of shame. He shouldn't have voiced this idea; she was right. He'd been so eager to try it! It  _was_  distasteful, wasn't it? But he'd thought... He swallowed, taking in her closed posture before he started to turn away.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat dry. "I won't suggest it again."

"Oh, I rather like your idea," she said, drawing him back, and then she blushed. "Very much."

He frowned, confused. "Truly? It doesn't put you off?"

"Not at all," she said in a seductive tone, turning and sliding silkily against him until they were fit together once more, her back against his stomach. His hands moved to draw her closer, but he was tentative, reluctant to act too strongly until he was sure he understood.

"Then what did I say...?" he asked.

She sighed, pausing in her movements and resting the back of her head against his collarbone. He held her, relaxing as she did.

"I'd much rather you show me, not tell me," she said.

"Very well," he said teasingly. "I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. I shall endeavour to convey what I can through touch alone."

"Oh, do stop talking before I get cross," she said, turning her head to smirk at him.

Matthew chuckled and gave a slight push forward, encouraging her to respond. She pressed back against him, moving slowly, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a brief, shuddering breath as their bodies resumed this new dance. He lifted his hands to cup her breasts, enjoying their soft fullness and warmth, and she gave a sigh of pleasure. Her own hands came around behind him, holding him firmly, and he groaned and closed his eyes as he obeyed her wordless command. She arched slightly and he turned his head to kiss her neck and got a mouthful of hair.

"Gah!" he spat, pulling away with a grimace and working the hair out of his mouth. Mary turned, laughing, and gathered it all in one hand. They fell against one another, giggling.

"I'm sorry," she said, clearly attempting to suppress another giggle and failing. "Your expression...!"

He silenced her with a firm kiss, pulling her against himself, and she made a small sound of pleasure. Drawing back, he looked down at her with a grin, then reached up and gently smoothed her hair back.

"Now, where were we?" he asked, as he carefully swept her hair on to her opposite shoulder, clearing a path for himself.

She turned obligingly, fitting against him once more—pausing to let him adjust himself—and tilted her head to give him full access to her neck. "Here, I think." Her voice was sultry and low, and he warmed at its tone.

His hands returned to her breasts, his fingers this time slowly playing with her nipples. He grinned as she hissed and arched back against him.

"Ah, yes," he said, smiling. " _Now_  I remember."

She only moaned in return, moving more insistently against him, and he trailed slow kisses up her neck until he reached her ear. He nuzzled it, keeping his lips closed, and measured her reaction. She did not seem to be tensing or pulling away, so he closed his eyes and gently fit his lips around her lobe, tugged it until he slipped off, and then returned to it again. It was so soft, and she smelled so  _good_. He drew in a deep breath, relaxing and marvelling at the glorious treasure in his arms, her warmth pressing against the whole of him, her body willing and eager and matching his movements. He groaned, a helpless sound, and he felt her tremble slightly.

"Take me, Matthew," she breathed. "Please..."

Her insistent grip on him matched her words and he swallowed, silently praying that this would work.

He paused to take her in: her skin was flushed, her lips parted, her nipples now firm under his fingertips. Her responses bewitched him. The cool and reserved Lady Mary, his  _wife_ , begging for him to take her! He smiled, thinking that none of his fantasies had ever come close to this.

He gently encouraged her to move towards the bed, then drew her hands up and placed them on the bedpost. She looked back at him with a frown of curiosity and he smiled reassuringly at her.

"Hold on to this," he said.

She nodded and obeyed, then looked at him expectantly. Was there a shot of fear in her eyes? He bent to kiss her, then ran his hands over her gently until he began to feel her relax once more. His caresses slowly became more intimate and soon she was lifting her head and then dropping it again, turning it from side to side, her lips parted and her breath catching as he played. He stroked her carefully and she lifted her head with a moan, her hair following her movement. The sight evoked in him the image of a young, high-spirited filly, tossing her mane: a wild creature, beautiful, breathtaking.

She lifted her head and looked back at him. Her eyes were dark with desire,  _for him_.

" _Now_ , darling," she said.

They made an attempt; learned; tried again...and finally he eased into her. He held on to her to steady himself as he drew in a shuddering breath at the rush of sensation. She gripped the bedpost once more and after a moment he began to move slowly, so very slowly.

He took in the sight before him and moved with a renewed groan. The smooth length of her back; the planes and lines; the small mole low on her spine; the movements of her body; the roundness of her bottom; the way she'd dropped her head again. His hands roamed, found purchase, applied counter-pressure to her hips as he pushed into her. Or was it her, pushing back against him? It didn't matter. It. Felt. So. Good.

She seemed more vocal now than she had been last night. With each thrust, she made a sound of some kind: a moan, a sigh, a sharp intake of breath, even a tight cry in the back of her throat. He experimented, speeding up slightly, and so did she. He slowed down, and she quieted—

"More," she said softly.

He chuckled and obeyed, and she clearly enjoyed it. He tried to slow again, but she gave a frustrated growl and he nearly laughed at the sound of it.

"I'm so  _close!_ " she moaned.

His eyebrows rose and he returned to his earlier rhythm. The small sounds she'd been making rose up to a sudden pitch and then her head dropped and she moaned, long and low and deep in her chest; he could feel her body's response, and his eyes widened in surprise and pleasure.

Mary sighed, sagging slightly, and then she drew one hand away from the bedpost and wiped at her face. He heard a soft intake of breath and froze.  _Was she crying?_

"My darling—?" he asked, his chest tightening with fear. Had he hurt her?

She shook her head, then took hold of the bedpost again. She drew in a deep breath and started to move back against him once more.

He held her hips still and frowned. "Mary? Did it happen again?"

She let out a quick breath of a laugh. "Yes...and no."

She smiled back at him, her face alight. "I finished," she said. "Just as I did last night. That's all." Then she gave another short laugh and straightened out, appearing ready to continue. "Go ahead, darling."

He grinned, relief suffusing him. "Very well, if you insist."

Her sideways smile made his heart leap. "I do."

He began to thrust once more, closing his eyes as he fell into the rhythm of it. He heard her moan and was shocked to feel again, only moments later, the sensation that had indicated before—!

He slowed; she growled; he grinned and obeyed. After several long seconds, she sagged again and he couldn't help chuckling. He was certainly enjoying himself, but she was a wonder:  _more than once!_

 _What else can I do?_  he wondered impishly. He hummed, intrigued, and shifted his stance.

"Matthew?" she asked, breathless.  _Oh, that sound!_  He pressed up slightly on his toes, curious, continuing to move, changing the angle slightly and increasing his pace. "What are you— _ohhh!_ "

Her loud moan of pleasure made him grin and he finally slowed as she did, pleased with himself.

She clapped a hand over her mouth as she sagged, half-laughing. "Matthew..." She twisted to look at him pleadingly. "Steady on! Please...we mustn't attract the servants!"

He laughed, then bent over and slipped his arms around her. His hands naturally found her breasts and he cupped them gently as he pressed a kiss to her back and breathed. His legs were trembling; the whole of him, in fact, was trembling slightly from the extended, unaccustomed exertion. He felt as though he were about to explode, both from happiness and from desire.

She sighed with pleasure and stood with him until he had regained some control over himself.

"Very well," he said, smiling as he straightened again. "No more of that."

"But do as you need to, darling," she said softly, adjusting her stance and her grip on the bedpost. "I'll be all right. Truly."

There was a firm resolve in her tone and he looked at her dark head, at the set of her shoulders and the strength of her frame. She was facing her fear and choosing to set it aside for his sake.

He felt a lump rise in his throat and he pressed his lips together and blinked, swallowing.

 _Thank You for such a wife!_  he sent up.

He felt a smile in return and closed his eyes. They could do this; they would. He began to thrust more firmly than before and she was soon pushing back, matching his movements as he gave himself up to the urge that filled him. He tilted his head back and breathed through his mouth.

"Yes, Matthew, yes," she whispered.

He groaned, the rush of ecstasy mixing with the burning in his calves, the threat of a cramp—but he could not stop now. He pushed again, then once, twice more, releasing, and sagged with a long exhalation and a moan. His legs felt weak; his calves ached; his whole body was flooded with the aftermath and a pleasant exhaustion. He sank down, bending over her, finally settling back on his heels with a sigh. He couldn't recall when he'd risen up on the balls of his feet, but it didn't matter.

Her body was soft and strong in his arms. It surrounded him and was warm and pulsed with life.  _New life_... he thought.  _Perhaps someday soon_. That a child of theirs could result from such a beautiful moment filled him with a renewed rush of emotion. He held her tightly to him.

She made a sound of discomfort and his eyes snapped open. He withdrew and stepped back, his heart pounding from their passion and the sudden fear that he might have made the same blasted mistake again!

But when she straightened up with a shaking breath and turned to face him, there was such a light shining in her eyes that he could not help but kiss her passionately in his relief and joy. She melted against him and they swayed. He quickly shot out a hand, sidestepped, and caught himself with the bedpost, then saw that she'd done the same and they laughed.

He stood grinning down at her and marvelling at how God had used the discomfiting memory of the boys in the attic to bring about something so wonderful. That experience and the curiosity at the possibilities that followed from it, all the urges he'd felt over the years: they filled him now with delight and eagerness, leaving no trace of shame. Gratitude was coursing through him.

"Thank you for trusting me and letting us try again," he said to her.

She smiled and hummed and kissed him.

When they returned to the bed, they curled up easily together in contentment, and were both asleep almost instantly, welcomed into the warm embrace of a satisfied lover and the low light of the bedroom.

* * *

"How did you know?" Mary asked, when they'd roused some time later and were lying beside one another, languid.

"Know what?"

"What you said last night," she said. "About the terrible bargain; about why I found it easy to believe myself an...unworthy woman."

Matthew rolled on to his stomach, smiling. "I can't take credit for that part, darling," he said. "I hadn't planned to say it."

She frowned. "What had you planned to say?"

"I hadn't the slightest clue," he admitted. "Except merely to repeat myself, and we both know how well  _that_  would have gone." He smiled. "Thank God He didn't let me."

She turned to looked at him, annoyed. "I wish you wouldn't speak in such a fashion."

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown.

"Has it not occurred to you that I might think it odd that you claim to hear the voice of God?" Mary asked.

"Of course it has," Matthew said. "But you're my wife. If I cannot be honest with you, who can I be honest with?"

"A very pretty thought," she replied. "But it makes me uncomfortable all the same. If you were willing to soften your words about our lovemaking for my sake, why not this, too? Why not just say, 'I thought' instead of 'God said'?"

His face clouded. "Because I would be lying. I cannot take credit for what does not originate with me. Softening my words about our lovemaking is a different thing altogether."

She scowled at him and he sighed, dropping his head a moment. He lifted it and looked at her.

"When you found me in the bathroom last night, I had been asking Him to show me how to convince you that you had been—" he swallowed, "—raped, that you hadn't freely chosen Pamuk. But He refused. He told me to trust Him and to endure your wrath and to let Him speak." He frowned. "I didn't know what He meant. I was afraid I would just make things worse between us. That was when you found me.

"So I started to try again, to explain a bit more of what I'd meant before, and then I reached a moment when something...changed. The direction of my thoughts turned towards what your choice to accept Pamuk  _implied_...and then it all suddenly...fit together."

She frowned. "What did?"

"The 'terrible bargain' part came to me in a flash. I had perhaps a half second's more warning of the words than you did." He shrugged. "I heard myself speaking them and I was learning from them just as you were."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why not just think of it as a flash of insight that came as a result of your mind looking for a solution?" she asked. "You needn't bring God in to explain it."

"True," he admitted. "But I know how it feels to arrive at my own conclusions, and this felt different."

She frowned at him.

"I'll admit that it was a little frightening to not feel entirely in control of myself," he added.

Her frown deepened. "If I'd known before we wed that you think you hear voices, I might have had reservations about marrying you," she said.

"I didn't purposely hide this from you," he said. "It just never came up. And I thought you understood when I made teasing references to Scripture."

"Just because I'm familiar with the Bible doesn't mean that I hear voices."

Matthew chuckled. "Everyone hears voices."

"Yes, their  _own thoughts_ ," Mary retorted. "Unless you're telling me that you hear something audible. I shall be truly concerned if  _that's_  the case."

"No..." he said, frowning into the middle distance. "His voice...and others'...just sound like my own thoughts do."

"Then how do you know that what you're hearing is not just in your imagination?" Mary asked, and then she arched an eyebrow. "You do have rather an active one."

He smirked at her, then said, "I don't know for certain. That's why I try to read a bit of the Scriptures each day, if I can. It helps to remind myself of how He talks to others. It brings His character and personality to mind. If the voice I hear doesn't speak to me like He spoke to them, then it's probably not Him."

"'Probably'," Mary said dryly. Matthew pressed his lips together and shrugged, conceding the point. She frowned. "And you're content to live out your days in this state of perpetual uncertainty?"

"What choice do I have?" he asked. "I hear the words. I must decide what to do with them. Besides," he leaned towards her with a grin, "it wouldn't be called 'faith' if there weren't plenty of room for doubt."

"But you mentioned 'others'," she said, disturbed. "If it's not Him speaking, then who do you think it is?" She pressed on, her frustration rising. "Why not just agree that it's all in your head, as the rest of us sane people do, and proceed without bringing mysticism into it?"

Matthew chuckled. "Who's to say you're more sane than I am? You believe in the existence of God—why not believe that He speaks, too?"

"Oh, I'm sure He speaks," she retorted. "I'm just not so arrogant as to assume that He speaks to  _me_."

Matthew smiled. "Arrogance is usually the  _last_  thing I feel when He speaks: He's often correcting me with uncomfortable truths or telling me to do something that I'm not sure I want to do—or that I'm absolutely certain I  _don't_."

"Then why do you do it?" Mary asked, recalling with irritation his decision to purchase a commission. "Perhaps that inclination to resist is the wise, clear-thinking choice."

Matthew shook his head. "Most often, it's just the selfish one: the easy, comfortable path that doesn't require anything of me."

Mary frowned, annoyed. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

Matthew rolled on to his back and frowned up at the canopy, resting his hands on his stomach.

"No," he said. "I don't know how to resolve the reality of undeserved suffering with the existence of an omnipotent, omniscient, loving God."

Mary looked at him, discomfited.

Matthew gave a heavy sigh. "You asked who I think it might be that I hear speaking, if not God. Sometimes it's clearly me. Sometimes...it's a more malevolent voice."

"How do you tell them apart?" Mary asked, feeling a chill come over her.

Matthew looked at her. "It's not easy, I'll admit," he said. He reached for her hand and took it with a smile, rubbing his fingers over her skin. "That's why I'm always eventually drawn back to studying the Scriptures: it separates the truth from the subtle lies that  _seem_  like truth until they're inspected more closely. Often, the most potent lies are surrounded by truth, and there's just some small twist warping the core, but with devastating consequences if it is allowed to play out to its fullest extent."

"It sounds exhausting to sort out, even for a lawyer," Mary said dryly.

Matthew chuckled. "It can be," he said, sobering.

Mary withdrew her hand from his, lay back, and pulled the sheet over her shoulders, still fighting a faint chill. "I prefer to consider only what I know," she said. "What I can see clearly before me."

"As you should," he said. "The challenge comes when you can't see clearly. Then where will you turn?"

"I expect I'll sort that out when I come to it," she replied. "I always have."

"Hm," Matthew grunted, managing to infuse the brief sound with disapproval.

She smiled, feeling as though she had won this round, although it wasn't really a prizefight at all, but something far more unsettling. She had known that Matthew often saw things differently than she did, but she had not considered just how deeply their perspectives and assumptions differed. She wasn't sure how she felt about spending a lifetime with his slightly disturbing beliefs and experiences always at hand. Perhaps he would grow wiser with time and would come to see the essential foolishness of placing so much emphasis on what could not be verified objectively. Or perhaps he wouldn't, and it was simply the trade that she had made when she'd chosen to marry him: in return for his ability to dispense with the superficialities of Society, and to love her despite her past, she was left with this unsettling difference in their philosophies. She would need to be the voice of common sense in their marriage, then, which was faintly ironic as  _he_  was the lawyer and really ought to be the one firmly planted in Reason. She sighed. He could be the Romantic; she, the Stoic. Perhaps between them they could muddle through well enough to actually succeed at this journey. They were now irrevocably joined, after all.

_...till death do us part._

She frowned. It should be fifty years that she had to look forward to with him beside her, not a mere six  _days_. After they parted ways in Manchester, what then?

"So it was true?" Matthew asked.

"Hm?" She turned to look at him with a frown of confusion.

"That you found it easy to believe that lie about yourself because you were accustomed to believing it?"

She turned away, now frowning up at the canopy above them, and sighed. "Yes. You were right. It hurt terribly when you said it, but then I felt a strange kind of relief, too."

Matthew made a soft sound. "Like a wound being lanced."

"I suppose..." She squinted thoughtfully. "I once had a blister from holding the reins poorly, when I was learning to ride. I had refused to wear my gloves despite Lynch's insistence. I remember screaming blue murder and Carson having to hold me still as Dr Clarkson lanced it, and then the relief as the wound drained. So I suppose...yes. It was similar."

"Yes," Matthew repeated, sounding lost in his own thoughts. "Mary, I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. If you wish it, I will not speak so freely of God with you, unless directly asked. But I do not plan to change my thinking."

Mary rolled on to her side, facing him, and smirked. "I cannot ask you to be less than you are, darling."

He smiled and looked at her. "Nor I, you. Let us agree to differ on this point?"

"What choice do we have?" she sighed, then smiled. "After all, it could be worse: I could be married to a rake."

"Who says you  _aren't?_ " he asked, reaching for her with a playful growl and tickling the underside of her breast. She shrieked and tried to roll away from him, but his hands and his mouth were too quick and she was soon giggling madly as he took great delight in discovering where else she might be sensitive.

* * *

"Mead was right!" Matthew said, as they emerged on to the pavement outside the Savoy Theatre that night, moving with the stream of exiting patrons. Rather than immediately hailing a car, he and Mary continued to drift down the street, enjoying the warm summer night and the general air of good cheer in the crowd. "That was quite invigorating!"

Mary chuckled, enjoying the opportunity to walk beside him, her hand resting comfortably in the crook of his elbow. She smiled at how fine a figure he cut in his dinner jacket and black silk top hat. She felt confident in her own beauty as well, recalling the looks of admiration from him and Anna when this ensemble had been completed. She and Matthew were out enjoying London's nightlife together with no one from her family in tow. Mary was a married woman now, no longer waiting for this part of her life to begin, but  _living_  it instead, and it felt wonderful.

"I've certainly never seen its like before, I'll admit," she said dryly, purposely feigning an air of disinterest. "It was quite...different."

Matthew's mood was irrepressible. "You cannot possibly disapprove, darling. I have never seen  _A Midsummer Night's Dream_  played so dynamically: at times, I nearly forgot that I was watching actors, and felt as though we were being given a glimpse of Faerie itself. Granville Barker is a genius!"

"What's this, you're a theatre critic now, too?" she asked, but her amused tone belied the cutting nature of her words. She had thoroughly enjoyed herself, although she was not about to admit that to him.

"Every man is entitled to his own opinion, and mine is that this was a first-rate production. You shall not dissuade me."

"Heaven forfend," Mary replied. "Where are we going?"

"I thought we might walk along the Strand for a bit," Matthew said, pointing. "And there's a nice wooded area just there, on the banks of the Thames."

Mary suddenly gasped and pulled him to a stop, her eyes fixed on a large bill posted outside the theatre, advertising ragtime at the Winter Garden. "Dancing!" she exclaimed with delight.

Matthew frowned and followed her gaze. "You want to dance at a hotel?"

" _No_ ," she said. "Murray's Club in Beak Street! It was the talk of the Season last year and Papa never let us go. Oh, I've wanted to try the ragtime dances! Might we, just the once?"

Matthew's face cleared and he grinned. "If you wish it, then absolutely." He peered at her with a look of amused curiosity; the thought of Lady Mary Crawley doing anything less stately than the waltz made him smile. "We shall just have to ask after this Murray's Club."

"Oh, never mind that," she said with a dismissive wave. "It's closed in summer."

"Then where—?"

Mary's face was alight in the glow cast by the streetlamps. " _Maidenhead!_ "

* * *

Aunt Rosamund's driver handed Mary down as Matthew stood to the side, looking up at the grand manor house near the Maidenhead bridge with an expression of delight. Sunset was fast approaching, the brilliance of the colours on the horizon finally beginning to fade. Fairy lights dotted the trees and the fences and the grounds, giving the manor house a magical air. Some guests were boating on the river while still others were milling about the patio and the lawn with cocktails, white-jacketed waiters moving amongst them with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. There was a great deal that glittered; everyone looked glamorous and wealthy, without a care in the world. Here, there was no sign that a war was on. He wondered how much longer this illusion could be maintained.

He turned and offered his arm to Mary with a smile, and they crossed to the party. The band on the lawn was playing a lively tune that Matthew didn't recognise, and there were a few couples moving about on a stunning, illuminated glass dance floor under the trees. He grinned. Mary couldn't have chosen a better place for them to spend this evening! He couldn't wait to lead her on to that floor and see her beauty lit by such a lovely glow.

They milled about, exploring, getting their bearings, and accepted drinks, smiled polite greetings at other guests, and once inside the manor house, found themselves at the entrance of a grand ballroom with a majestic blue ceiling, done up in the Japanese style. There were more people dancing here, but it was under instruction. Matthew stepped forward, intrigued, watching their movements carefully.

Mary stood beside him and quickly took his hand when he turned back to her. She was smiling widely. His expression matched hers, his heart felt light and his feet eager, and he found them a spot in the class. They spent the next thirty minutes very agreeably engaged, laughing and moving together, growing irritated as they tried to correct one another until they  _both_  were corrected by one of the instructors, and quickly growing accustomed to each of the steps being taught. They learned the One-Step, which was rather boring, but fine enough as a start; the Castle Walk—crushed toes and bruised shins; the Tango, which made Mary giggle, particularly when Matthew put on a tragic air; the Maxixe, which was decidedly sensuous; the Hesitation Waltz, which was the most familiar and elegant of the steps, and permitted an ease between them after their far more challenging true waltzing at Sybil's Ball, giving them a chance to smile and talk in the midst of the movement; and the Fox-Trot, which was playful and easy. Mary, however, drew the line at the rest of the animal dances, refusing even to try them. She and Matthew had learned enough to be getting on with and she saw no reason to make a complete fool of herself.

Slightly out of breath and ravenously hungry, they made their way to the outside patio and ate a fine supper under a clear night sky, as breezes blew in from the river and lent a slight chill to the otherwise warm evening. Matthew was perfectly comfortable in his dinner jacket but Mary shivered, so they finished their meal quickly, walked down across the lawn, and stood in a close embrace beneath a tree on the bank of the river, quietly watching the boaters pass through the glowing lights reflected on the water, until the music beckoned once again and she began to sway in his arms.

They danced, quickly growing more confident, and Matthew began to pick up small additions to the basic steps as he watched the other couples on the illuminated glass floor. A misstep, a restart, and soon Mary was relaxed again, waiting for the subtle movements of his hands on hers that indicated when he meant for her to spin out, or step to his other side, or swing slightly as he changed their direction to find a path through the other dancers. There were moments when she felt as though she were flying, the next movements so automatic, the strength of his frame and the confidence of his lead so complete that she stopped thinking of the individual steps and felt as though she and Matthew were merely a natural extension of one another—until the music would draw to a close and he would once again pull her into his arms, press a chaste kiss to her cheek, and then release her.

And oh, she longed to do so much more! Perhaps they could get a room—but no, none of her things were here, and he wanted to take her back to Eaton Square and ravish her properly there in privacy, not in some hired room with the sounds of other guests echoing around them, so they went to the concierge and Aunt Rosamund's driver brought the car round and the whole glowing evening faded behind them as they sat quietly together for the hour-long ride back to London, Mary dozing briefly in Matthew's arms.

They made a host of passionate new memories when they arrived home  _that_  night, despite the very late hour.

* * *

"Matthew,  _please_ ," she said, lying back and opening her arms—and legs, for that matter.

"No."

"I can do this."

"I'm not saying you can't," he said.

"Just for a moment, then."

"Mary—"

"Please."

He regarded her and finally sighed. "Just for a moment."

She grinned and briefly wriggled with delight, shifting herself so that he could rise.

He chuckled, shaking his head, still not moving from where he lay stretched out beside her, his head propped on his hand. "You are so..."

She arched an eyebrow. "Demanding?"

"I was going to say 'amazing'."

She arched up and kissed him, and he laughed as he met her.

She felt his hand on her shoulder, pushing her down. She made to pull away from the kiss, but he followed her as she fell back on to the bed, remaining locked in the kiss as he rolled on top of her.

She stiffened, an instant of—

He rolled back on to his side, breaking the kiss.

"Matthew—" she said quickly.

He fixed her in a look. "There's no need to rush, darling. It's only been six days. You needn't prove anything."

"I'm not trying to  _prove_  something!" she said. "I merely want to feel your weight on top of me!" At his unconvinced expression, she pressed her lips together and briefly looked away. "It's...I...crave it."

"You crave it."

"Yes. I can't explain it! It's no more rational than the involuntary response I had before.  _Please._ " She put her hand on his chest, stroking the hairs under her fingertips. "Just stay. Wait for me to ask you to move."

He regarded her for a long moment, then closed his eyes in defeat.

She smirked at him. "You needn't make it seem such a chore."

He made an irritated noise in the back of his throat as he opened his eyes. "You seem to think this easy for me, but I can't help dreading the moment when I feel your fear again." He frowned down at her. "I don't want to hurt you!"

"You won't," she assured him, cupping his cheeks with her hands. "Trust me."

He raised his eyebrows at that and then dropped his head with a chuckle.

"Very well," he said, lifting his head to meet her for a brief kiss. She took her hands away from his face and looked up at him expectantly. He drew in a deep breath, let it out, then rose up on his hands and knees and held himself above her.

She smiled encouragingly up at him and he lowered himself on to her. She drew in a deep breath as he settled down, closing her eyes and focusing her breathing on remaining steady. There was an involuntary moment of panic and then the sensation of fear slowly attenuated as she was still able to draw in full breaths. She began to take note of the pleasant sensation of his weight along the whole length of her. Or, nearly. She opened her eyes. He was holding himself up on his elbows, watching her closely.

She exhaled and ran her fingers lightly over his back. He sagged and his eyes fluttered closed briefly—and then he opened them again, giving her a look of fond reprimand, and she managed a smile in return.

Still breathing, still fighting the lingering sense that there was an edge of panic that could flare up if she let down her guard, she tugged him towards her, her palms flat against his shoulder blades. "Please," she whispered.

He frowned, saw that she was certain, and finally lowered his upper body, resting his head on the pillow beside her and relaxing. At his full weight, she started to tense—he started to rise—but she pulled down firmly on his shoulders and turned her head to press a kiss to whatever bit of him she could reach. She rubbed his back and closed her eyes and breathed. Just breathed.

Mmm...this felt good. She smiled and gave a small chuckle. There was only one thing missing: she wanted him inside of her.

"What is it?" he murmured, having now turned his head, his nose brushing against her jaw.

She merely hummed her pleasure and continued to smile.

He chuckled, lifted his lips to her ear, and played with the lobe. She let out a sigh of pleasure.

"I love you so terribly much," he rumbled in her ear, and she shivered from the top of her scalp to the tips of her toes, making him chuckle once more. "I  _do_  so love to feel that..." he murmured, purposely eliciting the sensation again as she moaned, and he pressed his hips down against hers. She was warming up quickly; she wrapped her legs around him, feeling giddy and aroused.

"Take me like this," she whispered.

"No," he said, and lifted his head with a grin. "I've a better idea."

She frowned as he pushed himself up and started to pull out of her embrace. Her arms tightened briefly, but he merely grinned and kissed her. She loosened her hold as he rose up and he started to move down the length of her body. She'd never seen him move in quite that fashion before and a shot of intrigue mixed with her disappointment. She lifted her head to watch him with no small amount of trepidation.

"Matthew?" she asked. "What are you...?"

He didn't respond, except to look up under his brows at her with a decidedly mischievous and provocative smile. It was the only warning she had before he lowered his head. When his tongue found its target and made the first stroke, she was so surprised—and pleasured—that her cry started high and rose up to end with the most undignified tiny squeak. She clapped her hands over her mouth in mortification—she didn't know that she was capable of making a sound that high-pitched!—and then burst into a fit of giggles as she watched him lift his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Shhh!" he said, still laughing. "Best not rouse the servants!"

She dropped her head back on to the pillow, letting her hands fall away from her mouth, and gasped for breath. "Oh Matthew...!" she sighed with a smile, and more than just physical delight was suffusing her. If he was willing to do  _that_ , perhaps he would permit her to try what she secretly desired. ...but not now—oh—no...not now...

She moaned and writhed, unable to remain still as he resumed his attentions, and she surrendered herself to his very capable care.

* * *

The light was low as it filtered through the heavy curtains of the bedroom the next morning, their last together. They moved quietly, easily, in the warmth of the bed, their hurried breaths and sighs mingling. There was a moan: from him? from her? She wasn't sure; perhaps she'd begun it and he'd finished it. She was content and grateful and at peace.

Matthew lowered himself slowly and carefully, fighting to hold himself steady with trembling, pleasantly-aching limbs.

As his weight settled upon her, Mary could breathe—but not fully.

"Up," she commanded, her breath short, and he immediately half-lifted himself with a murmur of apology, his eyes still closed. She drew in a full breath, saw that he wasn't relaxing back down again, and said, "All right, darling."

He lowered himself, but she could feel the tension in his upper body: he was still holding himself up on his elbows.

"Shh," she said softly, rubbing his upper back. "Relax, Matthew."

He lifted his head and opened his eyes with a sleepy expression, worry creasing his forehead. "You're quite sure?" he asked, his words emerging slowly as he searched her face.

"Yes," she said, smiling. She very much wanted to feel his weight as he relaxed and to hold him in this moment of peace. She ran her hands encouragingly over his shoulders and upper arms. "Rest."

She drew in a breath and he sank down upon her with a soft groan of relief. She smiled. This was perfectly comfortable and far more satisfying than she had ever imagined it could be. He was warm and heavy and breathing quietly, still inside her, and she loved him so terribly much. She hugged him tightly to her in gratitude and some measure of desperation, wrapping her arms and legs around him, for she  _so_  did not want him to leave! He gave a sleepy, pleased hum in response, making a faint attempt to return the squeeze, and she relaxed beneath him again.

Her present warmth and bliss pushed aside the awful anticipation of parting and here in this moment, at least, she chose to focus on her joy in being with him. She welled up with gratefulness as she marvelled at how full and complete she felt, with not even a hint of an urge to throw him off. She breathed easily under his weight; there was no panic, no fear, no nightmares crawling over her skin. There was nothing but his warmth and his weight and the beauty of his soul and body. To be loved by such a man! Surely she had done nothing to deserve him, but she was fiercely grateful for him all the same.

Tears ran down the sides of her face as she stared at the canopy above them, and she drew in a quick breath through her nose, happy, so very happy!

At the sound of her sob, he hissed and immediately lifted himself, starting to withdraw from her. Her hands, which had been resting on his backside, pressed against him, holding him in place.

"No," she said softly, through her tears. "Stay, please."

He frowned, confused. "Are you certain?"

She smiled through her tears. "Yes."

"But you're  _crying_ ," he protested. "Have I hurt you?"

"No!" she said, running her hands over his warm skin. "Quite the reverse!"

He chuckled, dropping his head a bit before raising his eyes to meet hers again. He was smiling as he bent to give her a warm, slow kiss. When he drew away, she saw him blinking back wetness in his own eyes. He settled down on to her again and they sighed together as he came to rest.

"I love you," he murmured beside her ear. "My storm-braver!"

Her tears came harder as she tingled and laughed, and she gave him a full-bodied squeeze of joy.

* * *

Mary didn't want to release him, but she knew that she had to. She did it reluctantly.

"All aboard!" a conductor called from somewhere behind her. "Manchester to Leeds, all aboard!"

She pressed her lips together, nodded, and wiped quickly at her left eye.

Matthew's face was white, his eyes wide, his mouth also held tightly in check. He swallowed and took her hand. "This last week..." he began, and stopped.

She nodded, trying to smile but feeling it more as a grimace that would precede tears, and she forced them back. She would not leave him with a final image of her sobbing. She forced a laugh. "Yes, everything, darling...thank you!"

He gave her a similarly forced smile and squeezed her hand before stepping back and releasing it; something ripped in her chest and her laugh went with it.

The train's final whistle sounded and she pressed her lips together again, quickly nodding, holding her hand bag tightly instead.

"Good-bye, and such good luck!" she said, backing up, not looking at where the steps were, not wanting to look away from him before she had to. If she never saw him again—

"Good-bye, and God bless you!" he answered. "I'll write as often as I can."

"Do," she commanded and he chuckled, then frowned and pointed to her left, moving swiftly to her side. She looked behind her. The steps, of course. She mounted them and sat down as he pushed the train-car door closed behind her. The train shuddered. A gout of steam billowed out, obscuring him somewhat, and he held up a hand in parting.

She couldn't manage to return it: when she lifted her hand from the window-frame, she'd  _meant_  to do the same, but instead her hand flew to her mouth and she watched him standing still on the platform as she moved away, farther and farther, until his steam-shrouded form grew small in the distance and the train rounded a bend, hiding him from sight altogether. She squeezed her eyes closed then—they were stinging—and could not prevent the sob that emerged.

But she would not end this day with tears. She drew in a deep breath through her nose, composed herself, lifted her chin, and settled back against the seat with a firm nod. She was Lady Mary Crawley, her husband would soon be at war, and she was going home to Downton to await his return.


	14. PART II: WAR - Chapter 14

* * *

 

PART II: WAR

* * *

 

_14_

**May 1915**

Matthew was weary and growing more nervous as the train rumbled across the lush green of the English countryside. He shifted his position on the seat, trying to relieve the familiar aches in his frame. He had been travelling for two long days and he was eager to be off the train and headed home, hopefully towards a warm, dry bed. He craned his neck and looked as far ahead as he could out the window, smiling as the fields and houses on the outskirts of Downton village finally came into view. He was almost there—almost to the station, and Mary.

The prospect of seeing her again filled him with nervous anticipation. He wasn't sure why, as there was nothing for him to be nervous about, but there was a slight trembling in his frame. Although they'd exchanged letters almost weekly since they'd last parted, his marriage to her still felt like something out of a dream that might not have actually happened. He supposed that was it: all his hopes of the dream being a reality were hinged on the first moment he saw her again. What would she think of him, having left her so soon after their wedding?

There were long stretches in between when he'd never thought of her, he'd been so consumed with just surviving and ensuring that as many of the men under his command did as well. But in the quieter moments, when everything slowed down and he was relieved of the endless retracing of his steps, when he could almost relax his guard, his thoughts went to Mary. The dream, the memory of her, had an unreal quality in the squalor of the dugouts. She was a fantasy from another world, clean and warm and exquisite, and he had to work to remember what Downton looked like, so different from the world he now knew.

Sometimes it seemed as though the misery of the trenches were endless. There was only mud and the infinite variations on discomfort, surrounded by a mind-numbing boredom that was interrupted only by regular installments of sheer terror. The heat and cold and chest-shuddering bombardment of the constant shelling were enough to drive out all thoughts other than a desperate drive for shelter. He was barely able to force down the overwhelming instinct to run and hide—where could he go?—and instead look after his men. Hour after hour, he carried out his duties as an officer. There was no other way to get through each day. Focus on his men, focus on keeping his head down, retrace, inspect, retrace, inspect, hope that shell whistling by overhead doesn't hit you—

The train shuddered and Matthew forced himself to refocus on the pastoral view out the window, welcoming the nerves fluttering in his stomach. He wanted to feel alive. Mary! He must ask her for a photograph to take back to the front. He always kept her latest letter in the left breast pocket of his tunic; he'd keep her photograph there as well, he decided.

The train's wheels screeched as it slowed and he glanced out again, seeing the station pulling up outside. He picked up his bag and hauled himself out of the cabin with stubborn energy, holding onto the rail to steady himself as the train came to a shuddering halt. Was Mary outside? He'd written to her of his expected leave in his last letter, but had it reached her yet? He'd sent it only five days earlier.

He moved quickly down the narrow corridor, came to the end of the carriage, and climbed down the steps. Steam was billowing out from under the train and he glanced to his left, towards the centre of the station, straining to make out a familiar face in the small crowd on the platform, and one in particular.

"Matthew!"

He twisted around at the sound, the familiar voice from his dreams—

—and saw her. Her hand was raised towards him, the look on her face uncertain until the moment their eyes met, and then her eyes widened. His heart leapt into his throat and he forced himself away from the unreality of the moment: she looked such a picture, so precise and beautiful and shrouded in mist, in the warm late-afternoon light.

She'd begun to move towards him, hurrying across the platform at nearly an unseemly run. He could only stare. He barely had time to drop his bag and raise his arms before she was in them and he dragged in a breath and pulled her close against the whole length of his body. She held him tightly and he felt and heard a sob of joy come from her. He wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Mary. She was in his arms, solid and real and as desperate to hold him as he was to hold her. He clasped her tightly for a long moment and then loosened his hold just enough to meet her upturned mouth with his own. It was just a chaste press of lips—they were still in public, even if he could feel the clouds of steam billowing around them—but even so, tingling warmth spread from the contact throughout the whole of his body. She slipped her lips across his, pressing another kiss, warm and soft again, and then pulled back. They marvelled at one another for a moment and he committed her sharp brown eyes to memory again. He blinked back the sting in his eyes and smiled at her and ran a thumb across her cheek. Her smile was radiant.

"Matthew."

His own smile widened. "Mary."

"It's good to see you," she said, and he watched her regain her dignified bearing. It made him smile. He straightened and released her, although they stood so close that their clothing continued to brush. He raised an eyebrow and pretended an amused detachment.

"It's quite nice to see you too, darling."

"Lieutenant Crawley, sir," Branson said with a respectful grin, and Matthew turned to look at the chauffeur with a smile. "Glad you're home."

"Glad to be home!" Matthew ignored protocol and reached out to shake the man's hand.

Branson looked initially taken aback by this display of familiarity but quickly gave Matthew his hand and a brief nod. He smiled and released Matthew's hand and jerked his head back towards the roadway.

"Car's just there. I'll get your bag."

Branson's glance was strangely distant and Matthew frowned. He looked back at where he'd dropped his bag and smiled when he realised that it was farther away than he'd expected. He must have made more of a move towards Mary than he'd thought.

He gave Branson a grateful nod and followed Mary to the car. Shortly after they'd settled themselves in the back, Branson climbed into the front seat and they pulled out onto the road.

Matthew raised his eyebrow at Mary. "So where are we headed?"

"The house, of course," she replied. "As you'll only be here for three days, Papa and I agreed that it wouldn't make much sense to open a cottage."

Matthew nodded with a smirk. "Of course."

Mary glanced at him. "You're not upset?"

He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Darling, if you'd announced that we'd be living together in a tent on the front lawn of the churchyard, I'd still be perfectly happy." At Mary's look, he chuckled and amended, "Well, perhaps if there were a hot bath drawn, I'd be happier."

She laughed. "Oh, good! I thought you might say that. I asked Carson to make sure one would be ready for you when you arrived."

Matthew sighed and pressed his lips to her cheek, careful not to knock her hat with the brim of his own. "Heaven. Thank you."

Mary smiled, then straightened and gave a slight forward tilt of her head. Matthew followed her gesture and caught Branson's eyes in the rear-view mirror, just before the chauffeur quickly drew them back to the road. It was clear that he'd been smiling.

Matthew smiled—he felt like he hadn't stopped doing that since the moment he'd seen his wife—and then he smiled again at the thought of Mary,  _his wife_ , and he looked out at the countryside passing by. Mary slipped her hand under his and rested it on his thigh. He clasped her hand gently, then settled back and relaxed against the seat beside her. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Matthew watched the familiar tree-lined path open up before them, and then the curve of the road as it approached the house, and then Downton Abbey came into view, rising over the green lawns with stately grandeur. It was still imposing, but there now came with it a knowledge of its interior, and of the lives of the family—his family—that lived within it. It was familiar and such a relief to see still standing just as he remembered it. It was almost as if he could pretend that there weren't a war on, for the great house looked the same as the day he'd left. He gave a sigh and then saw with a smile that the household had come out and lined up to greet him. He felt humbled and honoured by the gesture, and eager to be past all the formalities.

Branson pulled the car up and hopped out, quickly coming round to open the door. Mary stepped out first and Matthew followed her. He straightened and took in all the familiar faces, noting the ones that were missing. Of course: Thomas was in the medical corps now and Edith had been living at Locksleigh House since she'd married Sir Anthony.

Robert stepped forward and gave Matthew a warm handshake and clapped him on the back.

"Matthew, my boy, so good to see you!"

Robert was in uniform: the only visible sign that all was not as it had been at Downton before the war. He wore it well, and Matthew straightened in appreciation. He returned the greeting and then smiled at his mother, who stepped forward to see him next. He held her close a moment and then she gave a brief nod and stepped back. They would have time later to catch up properly. He greeted Cora—she looked well, if a little tired—and Sybil, who smiled warmly at him.

"Mama and Edith will see you at dinner this evening," Robert said, leading them inside.

"And Edward?" Matthew asked, glancing around. He hadn't seen any of the servants carrying a baby.

"Oh, he's having his nap now," Cora said, coming around them with a proud smile as they stepped into the great hall. "You'll see him before dinner; I'll have Norris bring him down to meet you." She gave him a wide smile, clearly pleased that he had asked after the child that had supplanted him as heir.

Mary moved past them, leading the way to the stairs. "I'll show you our rooms," she said, her tone a little brusque. He glanced at her, but she had already begun to ascend the steps.

Carson came to a stop in the great hall, gesturing for William to go past him. "William will bring up your bag, Lieutenant Crawley," the butler said. His expression was severe as always but his eyes were warm. Matthew nodded his thanks to both him and the young footman.

"I asked Bates to see to you first this evening," Robert said, smiling up at Matthew when he paused on the landing, causing Mary and William to pause as well. "First night home and all that."

"Thank you," Matthew said, a little taken aback. "But I assure you, that isn't necessary."

"Molesley sends his deepest regrets: his father took a bad turn last night," his mother explained.

Matthew frowned. "His father is ill?"

"Not a serious complaint," she said. "At least, nothing he won't recover from. But he's quite unable to make do by himself at the moment and Molesley is his nearest relation."

Matthew put out a hand. "Of course—tell him he must take as much time as he needs. I'll only be here for three days. I can manage." He cut himself off just before adding the words "without him", but it was clear that everyone present had understood the implication and not all of them approved. Matthew cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll just— head up." He gave Robert another grateful smile and ascended the stairs.

Bates was waiting outside the dressing room, a small smile on his face. "Welcome home, sir."

Matthew smiled back. "Thank you. Glad to be here, even if it's just for a few days."

"Quite right," Bates replied, and held out a hand. "I've drawn you a bath, at Lady Mary's request. It's this way."

Matthew nodded and glanced at Mary, who stood waiting beside William. "I'll just be in the other room," she said, her eyes flickering to the next door. "Carson will have rung the dressing gong by now, so I need to get to it."

"Right, of course." Matthew glanced at Bates. "Will there be enough time—?"

Bates smiled. "Don't worry about that, Lieutenant Crawley. The family wouldn't dream of starting dinner without you."

"Oh, but I wouldn't want to make anyone wait."

Mary rolled her eyes and strode away with a smile. Bates tilted his head, beckoning Matthew to enter first. "You'll find I'm quite competent at my job, sir," he said.

"I hadn't meant to offend," Matthew said quickly, obeying the valet's gesture.

Bates chuckled. "You haven't, sir." He pointed in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll see that your kit is ready the moment you step out."

"Thank you," Matthew said. "Did my mother have it sent over?"

"Molesley oversaw it personally and brought it directly here from Savile Row only last week." Bates said, taking the bag from William, who immediately left the room. "Will you be needing any help with—?" He gestured at Matthew's clothing.

"Oh. No, thank you, Bates."

"Just ring if you need me," the valet said, moving towards the door.

"Actually—" Matthew said with a grimace.

Bates paused and turned. "Sir?"

"My...underthings. They're...they really ought to be—" Matthew resisted the sudden urge to scratch himself and frowned.

"Burned?" Bates asked. "Of course, sir. We had your clothes brought over from Crawley House. I've also taken the liberty of leaving a small basin with a vinegar solution in it beside the tub, should you want it."

Matthew didn't quite smile, but he was immensely grateful for the valet's knowledge and efficiency. "My soldier-servant did his best to wash and delouse everything, but it might still be best to run a—well, we use cigarettes, but I suppose you might have something more civilised available at Downton—" Matthew chuckled nervously, "—along the inner seams of all my shirts and trousers."

"There's already a poker heating in the grate downstairs," Bates assured him.

"Good man."

Bates smiled. "I'll be along directly to gather your things, but if you'd be so kind as to leave them in the hamper?"

Matthew gave the valet a quick nod. The two men regarded one another for a moment and then Bates stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Matthew unbuckled his Sam Browne and shrugged out of his tunic, his glance moving between the two other doors in the room. He was torn: he both wanted to see Mary and he wanted to relax into a warm bath. After a moment, he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Mary was probably not alone in her room—or was it their room? He wondered idly if that was her old bedroom or if it had been done up especially for them now that they were married. He'd wondered what her bedroom looked like, what it would tell him about her. He smiled to himself as he walked into the bathroom and the warm, moist air met his skin.

A short while later, he slid into the hot water with a long sigh and sank down, resting his head on the edge of the tub. It felt glorious; a luxury that was almost decadent. The house around him was blessedly still. He hummed and smiled.

His eyes flew open at a soft sound and he looked up to see Mary bending over him, her face upside-down and smiling at him.

"Have you washed your back yet?" she asked.

"No." He smiled.

She tsked and reached to the side for something. "You're going to make Bates look bad."

He frowned. "What? Why?"

"You've been napping in here for at least the past fifteen minutes."

He sat up, realising that the edge of the water  _was_  cooler than he remembered it being. "Oh!"

He twisted to look at her and saw that she was wearing a bathrobe, although her hair was pinned up in an attractive fashion. He wanted to thread his fingers up into it, but she had moved away from him. When she turned back, he saw that she had a bar of soap in her hand. He obliged her and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and closing his eyes with a sigh as she began to run her hands over his skin.

Her hand paused on his left side. "What's this?"

"Nothing," he shrugged.

"Matthew, there's a pink line running halfway round your torso."

"It was just some shrapnel," he said. "I'm fine."

"When did this happen?"

He sighed. He really didn't want to talk about it. "A few months ago. It's nothing, really."

"Why didn't you mention it in your letters?"

He stared at the taps and shrugged again. "What would have been the point? It wasn't serious. I didn't want to spend my relief time recounting all my injuries. I didn't want you to worry needlessly."

"…'all your injuries'?" she asked.

He frowned at his slip of the tongue. "Mary, I'm fine."

She sighed in annoyance, stroked her finger along the scar one last time, and returned to washing his back. He closed his eyes.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Oh, as usual, you know," she said. "Unless you haven't been reading any of my letters."

He chuckled. "I think I have them nearly memorised by now."

A small moan escaped his lips when he felt her kiss the back of his neck.

"I love you," she whispered.

He drew in a breath and opened his eyes, his chest suddenly feeling tight. He twisted to meet her mouth with his own. The bar of soap in her hand slipped over his shoulder and came to rest against his chest, where she held it while she steadied herself during the kiss. He took the bar from her and continued to soap himself when she pulled back.

"You've missed me," he said, grinning up at her.

She raised an eyebrow, then met his eyes and slipped her hand down into the water before he'd quite realised what she was doing. She found her target and he hissed in surprise and lost his grip on the bar of soap. It shot into the water with a small  _plop_  as he grabbed the edges of the tub to hold himself upright. His heart was suddenly pounding. He groaned as he felt her hand move. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Mary—" he managed.

She laughed and pulled away, releasing the sleeve of her bathrobe, and he opened his eyes.

"It appears to be mutual, darling," she said, her eyes still laughing.

"Not fair," he murmured, dragging in a breath to calm himself.

"But ever so much fun," she said. She straightened up with a wide smile. He was pleased to note the high colour on her cheeks, and the flush on her skin. He would have liked nothing more in that moment than to drag her down into the tub with him, but he suspected that she would not take kindly to that. Well, something to look forward to later. He smiled to himself. Later.

"I'll send Bates in," she said, wiping her arm on his waiting towel. "He says your mess kit is pressed and ready."

He hunted for the bar of soap, found it, and ran it quickly under his armpits. "I'll be out in a moment," he muttered, affecting an annoyed tone even as he couldn't help grinning. "As soon as I manage to lose the effects of your attentions."

Mary chuckled as she reached the door. "I doubt he'd be scandalised; he was the one who sent me in here."

Matthew shook his head as she stepped out. Then he made a mental note to commend Bates before his leave ended.

The valet was waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom, the first of his clothing laid out neatly on the bed. The scarlet jacket hung on the door of the wardrobe and he stared at it in some surprise. He'd never worn anything so vivid.

For having never worked with the man before, Bates was surprisingly easy to interact with. He never pressed in and fussed over Matthew, instead just conveying a quiet sense of competence and dignity as each piece that Matthew required next was made available. There was none of Molesley's nervous eagerness to please; if anything, Matthew felt as though he ought to please Bates and yet Matthew was never made to feel less than perfectly appropriate in all that he chose to do—mostly on his own, he was relieved to find.

It was a rather quietly eye-opening experience and Matthew had a new understanding of why Robert was content to have a valet with a permanent disability. Bates's limp had raised Matthew's eyebrows when he'd first met him, and he had the vague sense that the valet's first year in the household hadn't been entirely without incident, but watching the man moving about the room now, it was clear that his limp and his cane presented no significant difficulty to completing his duties. Or at least, he gave the air of rising above it with ease.

That was something, Matthew was sure as he shrugged on the mess jacket and made himself comfortable in it, that had taken Bates a great deal of effort. Matthew could only hope that he would acquit himself half as well should he ever find himself in the same position.

Turning his mind away from that prospect, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, tugging the new black waistcoat and endeavouring not to be blinded by the bright sea of scarlet that surrounded him. Bates swept off his shoulders and made some minor adjustments, then stepped back. Matthew frowned.

"The shoulders seem a bit…tight," he said.

"And the waistcoat looser than it ought to be," Bates confirmed. "Molesley was working off your old measurements."

Matthew frowned. He hadn't realised that he'd changed that much. He looked up at the sound of a soft knock on the door.

"Will that be all, sir?" Bates asked, quickly gathering up the discarded bath sheet.

"Yes, thank you, Bates. First-rate job."

Bates smiled. "Thank you, sir. It's good to have to you home."

Matthew shot him one last smile before turning to greet Mary, who was emerging from the connecting door to the bedroom. Matthew heard Bates slip out behind him, closing the door to the gallery with a soft click.

But Mary wasn't looking at Matthew's face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was opened in small 'oh' of surprise. He felt two inches taller as he saw the appreciative glint in her eye. Perhaps this mess jacket didn't make him look a clown after all. He smiled as she approached him with an approving nod.

"It ought to be taken in a bit here," she motioned to his waist, "but the overall effect is quite…" She met his eyes. "…breathtaking."

He laughed and shook his head.

"What?" she asked, smiling, her brown eyes trailing over him again.

He closed the distance between them and put his hands on her waist. The dark fabric of her gown was setting her eyes and hair in a lovely light.

"I've never been called that before. 'A dull boy', yes; 'breathtaking', no." He grinned and leaned in to kiss her. She put her arms round his neck and obliged him and it seemed as though he were on the verge of crying and flying all at once.

After a warm moment, she pulled back. "You'll make me untidy," she murmured, but she was smiling.

"Good." He leaned in again and as they kissed, she moved her hands to stroke his face. He gave a small moan.

They heard the distant sound of the dinner gong and broke apart.

"Goodness, you're quite vocal this evening," she said, drawing back and smoothing her dress and hair. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her lips…so enticing. But he forced himself to straighten and released her.

"You object?" he asked, giving her his best rakish grin.

She chuckled and then her features resumed an aristocratic mien. "Not in the slightest. Come, now. Mama is anxious to show Edward off to you."

Something of the light went out of her eyes and the set of her mouth changed ever so slightly. Matthew followed her as she crossed to the door.

"What is he like?" he asked.

"Edward?" Mary affected a bored tone. "Oh, he's rather like all babies are at his age, I suppose. Alternately needy and unbearably cute. I don't know." She swept out into the gallery. "I haven't much experience with them."

Matthew put his hand on her arm and she paused and looked at him.

"Has it been as bad as all that?" he asked.

Her eyes grew cold and she put on a smile. "No, of course not. Bad? Whatever gave you that idea?" She turned away and continued down the hall. "He's perfectly adorable. You'll love him."

"Mary—"

" _Really_ , Matthew," she said, and gave him a warm smile over her shoulder. He was about to say something more, but Anna was approaching them.

"Lieutenant Crawley, my lady." Anna bobbed and they nodded to her. "Her Ladyship says you're to go down to the drawing room before dinner."

"Thank you, Anna," Mary said, and rolled her eyes at Matthew as Anna went past. "What did I tell you?"

Matthew smirked at her. "Behave."

"What would be the fun in that?" she asked, descending the stairs. They crossed the great hall and went into the drawing room, where Cora stood with Sybil and a female servant that Matthew had never seen before: Norris, he assumed. Norris was holding an infant—

—who looked strikingly like Mary. Matthew blinked in surprise and then smiled at the boy.

"So, this is Edward," he said, drawing closer and glancing at Cora, who nodded proudly, giving him an encouraging smile. He looked down at Edward. "Viscount Downton," Matthew mused with a grin. "Such a big name for such a cute little chap." He reached out to touch a soft cheek, and Edward finally turned to look at him—the baby had been waving his hands at a rattle that Sybil was holding out for him—and Edward's eyes widened and lit up.

"Da!" he cried, and he threw out his arms in Matthew's direction and started straining for him.

Matthew's eyes widened.

"Oh! Oh, goodness. He's mistaken you for Robert. He's the only one Edward's ever seen in regimentals, you see," Cora explained hurriedly. "Oh—" She reached out to steady Edward's straining form, as Norris tried to regain her hold on him in the midst of his squirming.

Edward put up a surprisingly loud squall at being restrained from reaching Matthew, and Matthew found himself reaching out to take him. Norris gave him up with a tiny sigh of relief. Edward was light, so light, and small, and soft, and his dark brown eyes were wide. He smiled and smacked Matthew's chest in an uncoordinated way, then squealed and wiped drool on the mess jacket that Bates had so carefully prepared.

"Oh my goodness. Edward—" Cora said, but Matthew just smiled down at him and Edward— Edward smiled back. Matthew chuckled.

"You know what's truly important, don't you little chap?" he murmured, jostling the boy gently in his arms. They continued to get to know one another for several more seconds, until Matthew realised that, except for himself and Edward, there was dead silence in the room. He looked around, dreading that he'd committed some breach of protocol by taking the boy. The eyes of the three women in front of him moved from him to something behind him and he turned. His mother, Cousin Violet, and Robert were standing just inside the door, all with odd—but different—expressions on their faces. They didn't look appalled, he thought. Just…surprised. He turned further and met Mary's eyes for confirmation, but the look on her face was the least comforting. He frowned and then looked to Robert. "I was just saying hello," he said, and glanced back down at Edward. The baby, at least, was looking at him happily. He turned back to Cora. "I hadn't meant any offence. He just seemed to want to come to me." He started to hand Edward back to Norris, but Edward squirmed unhappily and flailed at his jacket again.

"Da!"

At the sound, the tension in the room broke and Robert moved swiftly across to them with a wide smile, his face warmer than Matthew had ever seen it before, his eyes focused only on his son. He took Edward from Matthew with practised ease.

"Of course you haven't caused offence, Matthew," Robert said, amidst an excited stream of Edward's babbling. Cora wiped at Edward's chin with his bib, which Matthew was amused to note had the Grantham crest embroidered upon it. Robert was looking down at his son proudly. "Has he, my boy? Of course not." Robert looked up at Matthew, then glanced briefly at Cora. "We just weren't sure…whether you'd take to him."

"How could I not?" Matthew asked, tickling Edward's bare calf and smiling at the boy's answering squirm and giggle. "With such a handsome young man as this?"

"He  _does_  look an awful lot like Mary, don't you think?" Edith asked, having just come in. "We've all been saying it."

"Incessantly," Mary said dryly, from across the room. Edward squirmed and started to fuss, and Norris quickly swooped in to take him from his father.

Robert straightened his clothing and Matthew smiled at his slight look of relief. Robert nodded at Matthew's jacket.

"At least it dries clear," Robert said. "We can thank God for small mercies."

Matthew glanced down at the spot of drool and chuckled.

Carson appeared and bowed. "Dinner is served, my lord."

Everyone started to move out of the room, and Matthew glanced back at Cora and Norris, who were calming Edward and conferring about something. Mary came up alongside Matthew with a small smile as they followed the others from the room.

"Well, that went off better than anyone expected," Cousin Violet said, striding out of the drawing room ahead of them.

" _I_  didn't expect an awkward scene," his mother replied.

"You needn't be so smug," Cousin Violet sniffed. "It would have been entirely understandable."

"Why? I told you he didn't want the title."

"Which makes no sense."

"No, I don't suppose it would, to you," his mother said.

"Oh, do spare us your preaching," Cousin Violet said, turning to shoot Isobel a sharp glance as the two women entered the dining room. "Causing indigestion is Rev. Travis's bailiwick, not yours."

Matthew chuckled, surprised by how glad he was to hear their bickering. It felt familiar and comforting. He shook his head and shared a grinning glance with Mary.

They were seated across from one another at dinner; with a pang, he supposed his days of being seated beside her were past, now that no one was trying to match them any longer. Although, he mused as he pulled his napkin onto his lap, there was probably no small amount of wisdom in separating them this evening. He certainly wasn't feeling inclined to behave with all propriety towards her. He smiled down at his place setting, then watched her settle herself, admiring her poise.

When she met his eyes, she suppressed a smile, regained her bearing, and then clearly mouthed  _Behave_  at him, as the rest of the family took their seats around them and dinner conversation commenced. He sat back with a satisfied smile.  _Touché_.

Thankfully, questions about his time at the front were minimal. Conversation moved around them, ranging from Major Clarkson's and his mother's efforts to handle the new wave of soldiers at the hospital, to why Sir Anthony was away again and when he was expected back—Edith was being curiously cagey about her new husband, Matthew thought—to the Dowager Countess's assessment of the summer's early flowers and whether there would be a flower show in two months' time. Apparently, it was a source of some debate, as several of the local gardeners and under gardeners were gone to war and no one seemed certain as to whether a flower show was quite the thing during wartime. The debate raged between whether canceling it would 'let the Huns win' or 'honour the men in service'.

Matthew stayed out of it, as he had no opinion. It was absurd to debate such a point, but Downton was a world away from the front and Matthew let the conversation wash over him, reinforcing the sense that he was here and not there. He focused on enjoying the truly excellent meal, another reminder of life in this place. Cora described Edward's latest accomplishments and Robert was unabashed in his delight. He and his wife seemed so happy, as if a weight that Matthew had never noticed before had been lifted off their shoulders, and he was pleased to see it. They seemed to more easily laugh together. After Robert had shared a particularly amusing story about one of Edward's recent exploits, Matthew glanced across to share the joke with Mary and was surprised to see that she was sipping her wine and focusing on her meal. He frowned, and then Robert drew him back into conversation and the moment passed.

"Edith has an announcement," Cora said sometime later, during a lull in the dessert conversation. She was clearly attempting to suppress a smile and failing. Everyone glanced up at her and then looked at Edith, who smiled and smoothed her napkin.

"Anthony wanted to be here for this," she said, "but he wrote to say that he's been kept unexpectedly, and since this is really overdue—"

"Unexpectedly? Again?" Mary's voice was sharp in her disbelief.

Edith raised her chin. "Yes. That's right." She glanced away from Mary, her eyes drifting excitedly round the table. "But never mind that." Edith drew in a deep breath and smiled. Matthew raised his eyebrows at the confidence in her tone. Marriage seemed to be suiting her; he'd never seen her so calm after one of Mary's barbs before. He shot Mary a quelling glance and her eyes flashed at him before she looked away.

"I'm pregnant!" Edith said.

The family erupted into exclamations of surprise and delight, Matthew joining in wholeheartedly. It made everything he was doing feel worthwhile, to know that life was going on, the next generation was coming, and that no matter what became of him, he was part of making sure there would be a world for them to come into. He sat up straighter and smiled as he watched Edith glow and receive her family's well-wishes. He heard a half-hearted sound from the across the table and he frowned, his eyes flickering to Mary's. What was she doing this evening? Where was the warm, generous woman he knew?

Mary did not meet his eyes, although he could see that she was aware of his gaze. Instead, she gave Edith a wide smile—which did not reach her eyes—and suddenly stood, lifting her glass.

"A toast," she said, smiling again, and this time her face did soften. "To Edith. May your child be healthy and beautiful, and may you enjoy motherhood immensely."

The table was quiet for a moment and Edith looked surprised. Then Matthew raised his glass. "To Edith."

It was echoed round the table and Edith glowed happily.

"Thank you." Her eyes flickered to Mary, who was retaking her seat. "Truly."

Mary nodded and looked down at the table. A moment later, after Cora had finished exclaiming her joy with her usual effusiveness and the conversation had turned to when Edith's child was expected, Mary looked up and met his eyes. She gave him a  _Well?_  look and he smiled and nodded, feeling discomfited.  _I love you_ , he mouthed, and her eyebrows shot up. She blinked rapidly and looked away, taking a sip of wine. He frowned, his concern and confusion growing.

He heard Robert rise beside him and realised that the dinner was at an end. He stood, watched the women exit the room, and then settled down for the usual after-dinner ritual. Despite the pleasant burn of the port and the calming draws on their cigars, he couldn't quite keep his mind on Robert's conversation, which largely consisted of reassuring him that his mother would always have Crawley House, that he and Mary were welcome to stay at Downton for as long as they wished, and that Edward was such a blessing in his old age.

Matthew chuckled. "You're not  _that_  old, Robert."

The earl sighed. "Sometimes I feel it." He paused. "I've decided to inquire about resuming my old commission."

Matthew frowned. "I hadn't realised that you wanted to be in active service again."

"A man needs his self-respect," Robert said.

Matthew shifted. "I'd have thought, with an heir so young and the spare on the Western Front, you'd want to ensure the safety of the line."

Robert chuckled. "You've a point. But I'm sure if the line were ever to be in real danger, they'd pull me back quick enough."

Matthew frowned, not comforted by his father-in-law's flippancy. "They might not get the chance," he said.

Robert grew serious and nodded. "You're right, of course." He looked at his cigar for a moment. "Cora doesn't like it at all, the idea of me signing up for war again."

"Understandable," Matthew said.

"Quite." Robert frowned, then straightened. "Still, that's a bridge we can cross when we come to it." He smiled at Matthew. "Speaking of which, that reminds me: in advance of returning to service, I plan to name you as Trustee until Edward reaches his majority. Then if anything happened to me, you'd be pulled immediately."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Me? Surely there's someone more suitable. I've had only two years to learn the job and I've barely scratched the surface."

Robert shrugged. "I'd always assumed Shrimpie would step in if anything happened to me, and he would if he had to, of course, but he's quite busy with the Foreign Office right now and hasn't the time to take on a second estate. Besides, Yorkshire is hardly convenient for him. I can't imagine he'd thank me for loading him up."

"And you think that I would?" Matthew laughed.

Robert raised an eyebrow. "I know you've never really wanted the responsibility, but I thought this place had grown on you."

"Oh, it has," Matthew said quickly. "I'm just not sure I'm the best man for the job."

Robert leaned forward. "You are. And you wouldn't be alone. I'm sure Shrimpie would advise you if you asked him to. And you'd have Murray and Jarvis, of course."

Matthew swallowed. "Well then," he said with a nod.

"Murray's office would fill you in on all the particulars, but in general you'd be running the place in my stead. Without the title, of course," Robert said.

Matthew nodded again. "And Cora would be Edward's only legal guardian, I trust?"

Robert frowned. "No; you'd fulfill my role in that position as well."

"That doesn't seem quite right," Matthew said. "I could never usurp her authority as his mother."

"And I hope you would never need to," Robert said. "But as a man—and a lawyer—you must see the benefit in having a second voice in his upbringing."

Matthew frowned at his glass of port. Cora would be perfectly capable of making decisions on behalf of her son, but the law did favour the male line. He glanced up at Robert and gave a curt nod. He did not want to contemplate the possibility of Edward losing both his parents and the boy's care falling to himself and Mary. How would she respond to that, after this evening's performance?

Matthew sighed and smiled sadly. She would rise to the challenge, of course. She would handle it with grace and poise and—he was sure—eventually warmth. But he was not blind to how much Edward's presence at Downton must sting her, with the constant reminder of her being passed over as heiress. She'd not spoken of it explicitly in her letters, but he could read it in her choice of words, in the coolness and precision with which she wrote of her brother. It was such a strange thought, that so young a child should be her brother. It seemed more fitting that he should be her  _son_ , with his eerily similar dark eyes and pale skin.

"Matthew? Are you quite all right?"

Matthew opened his eyes, not having realised that he'd closed them. "Oh yes. I was just thinking."

Robert looked at him for a long moment. "About Mary?" he finally asked.

Matthew raised his eyebrows, then nodded and set down his cigar. He didn't feel much like finishing it this evening.

"She's not been the same, not since Edward's birth," Robert said quietly. "Cora and I are quite at a loss."

"No, I don't expect she would be," Matthew said. "It's just the final nail in the coffin for her."

Robert frowned and looked away, setting down his own cigar with a grimace. He sat forward slightly. "Matthew, I hope you know that I have taken no pleasure in what I've done to you and Cousin Isobel. You've truly become a son to me, and not just by law. For all that I'm proud of Edward—and, I'll admit, relieved by his existence—I never wanted to displace you."

Matthew smiled. "Thank you, Robert. I know. And I have greatly enjoyed being able to learn from you and come to you for advice." He glanced away for a moment. "I can't say that you've come to stand in my father's place..."

"I would never presume to."

Matthew nodded. "...but it has been a privilege to be allowed into your confidences, however much you've chosen to do so." He paused. "If my words sounded bitter, I apologise. I'm not upset for myself, but it is difficult to see Mary's pain and be unable to do anything about it."

Robert sat back with a sigh. "I know exactly what you mean."

Matthew raised his eyebrows and gave Robert a tight smile. Then Matthew chuckled.

"What?" Robert asked.

"I can't be upset with you for uprooting Mother and me," Matthew said. "If the only thing I come away with is Mary as my wife, I'll have riches enough for a lifetime."

Robert's face broke into a wide smile. "It's good to have you back, Matthew, even if only for a few days. And I know it will do Mary a world of good."

Matthew smiled.

"Has she said anything in her letters to you?" Robert glanced quickly at Matthew and raised a hand. "I'm sorry; it's none of my business what goes on between you and your wife." He gave Matthew a small smile.

Matthew returned it out of politeness, but he wasn't offended. "Not as such, no. But it's not difficult to hear her unhappiness in what she doesn't say."

Robert nodded. "I saw her holding Edward and singing to him once when he was very young, when she thought no one was watching, but otherwise she's been…withdrawn."

"I told her that she should feel free to take on any sort of activity that appeals to her," Matthew said. "As she has more freedom now."

Robert nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, he slapped his thighs and made as if to stand up. "Shall we rejoin the ladies?" he asked.

Matthew smiled and nodded and drained the last of his port, then rose beside Robert.

* * *

"I suppose you'll want to take me to task for my behaviour this evening," Mary said, when Matthew emerged from his dressing room.

Matthew smiled and laid his book on the nightstand, then flipped back the sheets. It was a warm night and he expected to be kicking them off entirely soon enough. "Why ever should I want to do that?" he asked, sliding in beside her. "When there are far more entertaining things we could be doing?"

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what would those be?"

"Coy," he murmured, grinning, and kissed her.

"Impatient," she replied, when they parted a few moments later.

"You really want to wait until  _after_  I dress you down?" he asked, sliding his hand down her body and kissing her again, this time moving away from her mouth after a moment and drawing in a deep breath as he drifted along her neck.

"Not really," she sighed in pleasure. "Although I wouldn't mind if you  _un_ dressed me first…"

He laughed. "I'm not  _that_  impatient, darling."

"Nor that impractical," she said, but her words were breathless and he loved the sound each time he made her breath catch.

They made steady progress and were going along quite well until the moment she paused and frowned at his torso, running a finger along the pink scar on his side again. She'd drawn away from his kiss to look at it.

"What's it been like?" she asked.

Matthew paused in his explorations and frowned down at her. Now? She wanted to talk about all of that now? He didn't. He'd been enjoying the sensation of losing himself in making love to her. But she was looking up at him and he swallowed. When he tried to find words for the hell that had, until this moment, seemed so distant, the bone-shuddering, endlessly-grey landscape returned to him with an unexpected vividness. His legs ached, he felt the sting of the biting flies on his neck, the stench of death and shit and rot in his nose and he couldn't, not here—

He looked down. "You know, the thing is…I just can't talk about it."

She gave him a sad smile.

He pressed his face against the soft, creamy skin of her belly and breathed in through his nose, then planted a slow kiss there, focusing on her, on her scent, on the silken smoothness of her against his lips, on her warmth and the press of her legs rising to either side of him.

"So beautiful..." he said with a sigh, starting to feel his mind and body respond to just her again.

"Yes," she answered with a smile in her voice and her fingers moved into his hair. When he met her eyes, he saw admiration and desire reflected in them, echoing his own.

He grinned and lowered his head to nuzzle her belly, running his hand along the underside of one of her legs, and he smiled at the sound of her sigh. Then he felt her hands move down from his hair to his upper arms and she suddenly tensed.

"Matthew—" Her eyes and her frown were focused on a different scar, this time on his arm, as her fingers ran over the bumpy edges. "What is—?"

He gave a sudden growl and rose up, stretched across the bed, and put out the light.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, but he cut off the end of her words with an insistent kiss. She resisted him at first and he forced himself to draw back. His heart was pounding. He felt a pang at his urge to force her in even the slightest way, but he was filled with a desperate desire that he could not deny. He wanted to  _forget_  and he wanted to  _remember_. He wanted to feel her again. He could barely make out her features in the dark, but her skin was warm against his hands.

"I need you, darling," he said, his voice low. "Please."

There was a pause and then her hands came up over his shoulders.

He groaned in relief as he pressed himself down against her, covering her mouth with his own. She drew in a sharp breath when he broke away, her touch still tentative, but his hands followed the lines of her body in the dark—he could easily make out shadows and shapes now and he did not hesitate. She was still propped up against the pillows, her head too close to the headboard for his comfort, so he sat back, kneeling between her legs, and with a firm grip under her haunches, suddenly pulled her towards him.

She made a small noise of surprise, her legs lifting to either side of him as her hips tilted up. He placed his hands on either side of her to support himself, let her legs rest against the front of his shoulders, and thrust into her. She gave a moan of pleasure and he growled, spurred on by the sound. He straightened out, resting more of his weight on the backs of her legs, and felt a wild abandon at the strangeness of their position. His mind was reeling, part of him screaming out that he should stop, or slow down, or check to make sure that she was all right, but it was so  _deep_  and satisfying and tight and she was only grunting softly under the onslaught, her hands rubbing his arms. That sensation was distracting.

He broke her grip, pushed himself back far enough to get her legs out from between them, and started to straighten out over her again. Before he could begin to move, however, he grew irritated at the light fluttering of her hands running up his arms again and he had to sit back.

"No," he growled, and captured her wrists with his hands. He pushed her arms back down, holding firmly on to them, and began to thrust into her. Her inner muscles weren't contracting around him and he wanted to feel that tight fit again, so as he pushed repeatedly into her, he bent forward and drew one of her nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the nub and then sucking insistently on it.

She responded at he'd known she would, by arching her back with a low moan—thus presenting him with an easier target—and tightening hard around him. He groaned, but continued his efforts, moving to her other nipple. Her involuntary squeezing would only last for so long, and as he felt it wane, he compressed her nipple perhaps a touch harder than he ought to have and she gave a wordless cry, her inner muscles convulsing, and fought to free her wrists.

He was breathing hard as he drew back from her breast, feeling a strange light-headedness swirling with a sudden fear that he'd gone too far. He'd trapped her—!

But the moment he released her arms, she sat up with a fierce growl, pulling herself tightly against him. He nearly toppled forward in surprise, and only managed to break his fall at the last moment with rigid arms. She kissed him, hard. He moaned into the kiss, feeling her match his ardour and focus, just as demanding of him as he was of her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he sat back, taking her with him. She was sitting on his lap now and she began to move against him.

His eyes were wide open in the dark, his mouth open as well, as he bore himself up under the passion of his wife. He held her in his arms and her hands clutched at his back. Their rough breathing and the sound of flesh moving against flesh filled his ears. He sought her mouth with his own, their hot breaths mingling, sweat rising on their skin. Her hair fell about them in a dark curtain, brushing over his head and shoulders, and he broke the kiss to draw in a breath. She nipped at his neck and he grunted in surprise. It  _stung_.

He gave a sharp growl and bent forward, bringing her down hard on the bed, trapping her again. She made a frustrated sound, but he was unwilling to wait any longer. He straightened his arms on either side of her and thrust his hips forward forcefully, drawing out a low groan from her that made him drunk with passion. His head dropped and their foreheads touched as they moved together, their eyes locking in the darkness, and she arched up towards him. He could not stop now, did not want to stop, and as she pulled him deeper into her, he realised that neither did she. Sensation overtook him and thought left him, any last shred of restraint melting in the heat of his desperate movements and the realisation that she was matching him, bucking up towards him, pulling him hard against her body. He felt her breasts against his chest and her thighs squeezing his hips and her inner muscles squeezing him rhythmically, matching his thrusts with maddeningly perfect timing.

He moaned as his release approached and her answering cry of encouragement made him suddenly arch back as he let go. Every muscle tightened and he moved helplessly, releasing, rocking with it until he was spent, and then he half-fell, catching himself at the last moment, and rolled off her. He collapsed by her side, his heart pounding in his chest.

They lay quietly beside one another, their breathing eventually slowing. She moved towards him and curled in against his side, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She pressed a soft kiss to his chest.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

He pulled her close with a groan—his calves and shins still ached—and rested his cheek against her forehead. "No,  _I_  am. I shouldn't have taken you like that, all rough and desperate. It wasn't what I'd imagined for us."

She breathed a soft laugh against his skin. "You've spent time planning this, have you?"

"My favourite pastime." He smiled in the dark.

She laughed again. "Mine too."

He chuckled, then swallowed in regret and kissed her softly. "I'm so sorry, darling. I just needed you so badly..."

"Don't be," she answered. "I quite liked it, actually."

He raised his head and looked at her. "Truly? It didn't…bring back bad memories?"

She raised herself up with a smile. "Not in the slightest. You're your own man, Matthew. I  _wanted_  this with you."

He relaxed with a sigh as she settled back down against him. He idly ran his fingertips along the sweat-dampened skin between her shoulder blades and smiled when she hummed.

"Good," he said.

"It's sweet that you still worry," she said, "but you needn't. Your creativity when we were last together was quite energising. And what we did, when we...experimented...well, it helped a great deal."

"That's right…" he murmured, smiling as he remembered. "Your response was beyond my best hopes. By the end of that week, you even begged me to make our last time the same as our first."

"Your love drove out my fear," she smirked. He chuckled.

"I think you left a word out of that quote."

"It's well that I did," she said, and kissed him. "I wouldn't want your head to get any bigger than it already is."

He laughed and rolled her onto her back. "I don't think so. If anyone ought to be corrected, don't you think it should be you?" She shrieked and then immediately covered her mouth with her hands, wriggling desperately to get out of his grasp as he tickled her sides and laughed.

"Matthew—" she gasped, whimpered, curled away from him and tried to cover her mouth again, then giggled as he played against her neck with his tongue. "Stop! My family—"

He ran a calming hand along the side of her body and she began to relax a little. He kissed her lips softly for a long moment, feeling her body loosen entirely, and then he flopped down beside her with a sigh of contentment.

"I love you, Mary," he said, his heart pounding in his chest. It quickly quieted and he smiled. God, it felt good to be alive.

"I love you, too, Matthew," she said, rising up beside him in the dim light of the bedroom. She ran a hand through his hair. "So terribly, terribly much. I'm so glad you're home."

"Home," he echoed, still fighting a faint sense of the unreality of it. "Yes." He reached for her, ignoring the thought that he would be leaving again soon. Three days. They had three whole days. And the rest of this long night. He smiled as she pulled the sheets up around them. He encouraged her to roll until her back was to him, and then he curled himself around her with a sigh.

"Good night, darling," she whispered.

"Good night." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and relaxed into the comfort of his pillow, deeply grateful not to be sleeping on a cot tonight. It would be a long, warm night, in bed with his  _wife_. He sighed and drifted off almost immediately.


	15. Chapter 15

_15_

They did not rouse again during the night for another round of lovemaking, but Matthew was not bothered by this realisation when he awoke in the early light of dawn. He hadn't slept so deeply in many, many months and as he stretched, he found to his delight that the familiar aches and pains had receded. It was a most welcome change from the usual discomforts that greeted him when he awakened in the various dugouts and tents at the Front. He looked up at the light fabric of the canopy and smiled. Across from him, Mary shifted in her sleep. He slipped out of bed to relieve himself and when he returned, he slid under the covers beside her and touched her gently.

"Mary," he whispered, and then smiled when she did not respond. He watched her breathe, transfixed by her peaceful beauty in sleep. He had not often been treated to moments such as this one; awake, she was sharp-eyed and alert, with a fierce intelligence and warmth that kept him always on his toes. He let his lips brush her ear. "Mary," he repeated, now in a low tone.

She hummed and he smiled, feeling the faintest shiver run through her body. He  _loved_  that he had the power to evoke that response in her, even when she was only half-conscious. She rolled towards him, her eyes still closed but with a beautiful smile on her face, and gave him a sleepy kiss.

"Good morning," he said.

"G'morn," she mumbled, and nestled in closer. She seemed to want to go back to sleep, but he was wide awake and eager to make love to her again, her wantonness from the night before fresh in his mind.

He let his hand play on her skin, finally drifting down to cup her breast as he revelled in its soft shape. She reached for him, kissing him sleepily again, but this time her movements felt like an invitation rather than an attempt to put him off so she could go back to sleep. He grinned into the kiss and hummed his approval, reaching down to pull her leg up over his hip. She acquiesced, still kissing him, and tightened her leg possessively, giving a low-throated laugh when she felt how eager and ready he was.

"God, I've missed this," she sighed as he broke the kiss, and he chuckled and shifted down slightly to pay his attentions to her breasts. Her legs slipped to entwine with his and he groaned with pleasure as their bodies slid against one another. He teased her with his lips and then smiled when he heard her happy moan. When he lifted his head, however, he saw that her eyes were still closed. He grinned and took it as a challenge.

He started to wake her more intentionally, the sheets slipping down around them as they moved. She quickly matched his eagerness, her hand reaching down to stroke him and her kiss growing more impassioned, until she suddenly opened her eyes with a gasp and broke away. She raised herself up on her elbow and squinted at something behind him.

"What?" He frowned, trying to regain her attention with his hands.

She batted them away from her body and said sharply, "What time is it?" She was frowning at the clock on the bedside table.

"What does it matter?" he asked, trying to recall any early morning appointments and failing.

"Because Anna—"

They both froze at a soft knock, and then Mary threw herself down under the sheets beside him with comical speed. He couldn't help giggling and she shot him a quelling look. He restrained himself, then glanced down at the obvious bulge in the sheets and, with wide eyes, rolled on to his side, facing her. He closed his eyes just as the door opened and Anna stepped in quietly, the small clinks as she moved indicating that she was likely carrying a tray. The servants entered the bedrooms in the early mornings without being bid? How…inconvenient. He hoped that didn't mean that he and Mary would be expected to get up at once to dress for the day. He hadn't really given a thought to what the morning routine of the house would be. He opened his eyes and watched Anna move towards a window, where she pulled open the drapery, cutting into the warm darkness of the room.

"Seems rather shocking for Anna to have to find me  _en deshabille_ ," he murmured to Mary, who chuckled.

"I'm made of stout stuff, sir. Don't worry about that," Anna said brightly, clearly having been awake for some time already and in possession of excellent hearing. She opened the second drapery, flooding the bed with bright morning sunlight. Matthew tugged the sheets up around himself a little more.

Mary turned her head towards Anna with a smile. "Don't I know it."

Anna smiled and gave Mary a quick glance—carefully avoiding Matthew's gaze—as she moved back towards the door. She stepped out a moment later.

"I'm sorry," he said, as the door clicked shut behind the maid and he let himself relax, rolling on to his back. "It just seems odd to be found in your bed."

Mary raised herself up beside him with a smile. "But very nice."

He grinned and rose to meet her. "As nice as nice can be." The kiss reminded him of what they'd been doing before being interrupted and he relaxed into it, enjoying Mary's initiative as she moved against him.

"So I take it we aren't expected to rise immediately?" he asked, watching with delight as Mary tossed back the sheets and climbed atop him.

"God, no," she said, getting comfortable and giving him a wicked smile. "I let Sybil roam the house on her own before breakfast. I stay in bed for as long as I possibly can."

"Oh good," he said, grinning and enjoying the sight before him. "I'm relieved."

"You might not be for long," Mary said, leaning down to kiss him.

"Why not?" he asked, when she drew back.

"I've an idea…" She looked curiously uncertain for a moment. "There's something I've been wanting to try since before the wedding."

He tilted his head, amused and intrigued. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

She shrugged. "Well, you had so many ideas during our honeymoon that I was happy to follow wherever you led." She grinned at him. "That week was the most fun I've had in my life."

"I second that," he grinned, then sobered. The previous ten months would have been much bleaker without those memories.

He looked up when he felt her fingers thread through his hair and he smiled at her.

"I don't like not knowing where you go, when you go away," she said.

He regarded her a moment. "I know. It's just—I can't. I'm not supposed to."

Her fingers stroked his scalp. "I'm not asking about troop deployments, Matthew. Just for something more than the light banter in your letters. There's something behind your eyes."

He closed them. She sighed. A moment later, he felt her lips press against his chest.

"We've been married for nearly a year and sometimes I feel as though I barely know you. Or at least," she paused, "I fear that I don't know you anymore."

He opened his eyes and frowned up at her. "What are you talking about?"

She sighed. "All these months, living apart. Sometimes, it felt as if the wedding were a dream that might not have happened. I had your letters, but you were so far away…"

He smiled ruefully. "I know what you mean." She tilted her head in question and he continued: "I was so nervous on the train, the closer I got to Downton. Everything was hinging on the first moment I saw you and I couldn't quite believe that you would really be there." He closed his eyes with a sigh. "This is another world—and I don't just mean a different world from the front, which it is—but, Mary," he opened his eyes, "three years ago I was nobody in particular. I lived a quiet life and I had quiet dreams and I was content to keep my head down and work until they came true." He reached up and cupped the side of her face with his hand, running his thumb across her cheek. "They did not include marrying a Lady. Not even in my wildest imaginings."

"Oh Matthew," she said, bending down to kiss him. "I never knew what love was until I knew you."

He held her close against him, kissing her with renewed passion. When the kiss ended, she pulled back and sat up.

"I didn't just mean that you were a long distance away, or incurably middle-class," she said with a grin. "Your letters: they're full of lovely things and they make me laugh and I love the allusions and the challenge of composing an amusing riposte. But they feel as though they are only part of you, not all of you. Surely war cannot be such a light and charming thing."

Matthew closed his eyes again.

"Don't," she whispered, touching the side of his face. "Don't pull away from me."

"I  _can't_ , Mary," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Can we please talk of something else?" He opened his eyes and smiled, then ran his hands over her thighs. "Or better yet, not talk at all? What was that 'idea' you mentioned?"

She actually blushed and looked away from him.

"Now you really  _must_  tell me," he prodded with a grin.

"I can't," she said, then smirked a moment later at his expression. "I'll have to  _show_  you."

"All the better."

She drew in a deep breath and seemed to steel herself. She shifted up on to her hands and knees above him.

"You'll stop me at once if you don't like it?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, frowning slightly. He couldn't imagine her doing anything he wouldn't like, especially not with the direction she was moving in, down the length of his body. He grinned in anticipation, encouraging her, and she finally smiled.

Then, without another word, she lowered her head. He realised an instant before her lips closed around him what she was intending to do and it wasn't nearly enough warning. His eyes shot open in shock at his good fortune, and then he bucked and moaned and threw his head back at the exquisite rush of sensation. She hummed against his skin and he sighed, his hips moving helplessly under her ministrations, and he lost himself in how good it felt—her warm mouth, her wet tongue! The very sight of what she was doing caused him to groan again. There was room for improvement, but  _God_ , he wasn't going to complain.

She drew back after a while, when he'd relaxed and grown accustomed to it, and he opened his eyes and looked at her.

"I like how you think," he said, grinning.

"I take it you weren't put off by the very idea," she said, climbing towards him.

He chuckled. "Not in the least! To be honest—" he paused with a groan of relief as she settled down on to him, straddling him. He took a few seconds to regain his senses and smiled up at her. "—I'd considered suggesting that, once, during our honeymoon, but I thought perhaps it might be asking too much of you."

She laughed and started to move and he closed his eyes, giving up speech.

"I would have been delighted," she whispered in his ear, and he chuckled. "I was so afraid you would be disgusted with me."

"Never," he said, opening his eyes to meet hers. "And now you've got me wondering what  _else_  I can suggest..."

"I suppose you'll just have to try it and see," Mary said with a wicked grin.

He laughed and ran his fingers up into her hair and she closed her eyes, arching against him with a little hum. He loved how demonstrative she was. He watched her take her time, observing how she moved, what her body needed, how she responded to his touch, and he exulted each time he could make her eyelids flutter closed, or her lips part with a gasp. She repaid him in kind, however, squeezing her inner muscles when he provoked a reaction from her and causing him to groan in surprised pleasure more than once. When he could feel her body begin to tremble with eagerness, he slowed their movements, silently asking with his eyes for her forgiveness and trust, and he rolled them both over. It took some effort and self-restraint on his part, but the satisfaction of seeing and feeling her shudder and moan beneath him was well worth it—it was the first time that he'd kept his eyes open to watch her reach her completion like this—and he surrendered to his own shortly thereafter, embracing her tightly and thrusting hard into her, drawing a moan of pleasure from her as he released.

Later, when they lay together, satisfied, they heard the faint sounds of the house awakening around them.

"You should get up," Mary said.

He frowned. "What about you?"

"Ah," she said with a smile, rolling away from him and pulling herself up into a seated position. " _I_  am a married woman. I take breakfast in bed."

He raised his eyebrows and smirked at her, then watched her slip out of bed and pull on her drawers and nightgown. She settled herself back in bed and lifted the tray on to her lap. She took the cover off the plate. It smelled wonderful: his stomach growled. He started to reach for a piece of toast, but she slapped his hand away.

"Breakfast will be set out by now, down in the dining room. You'll be expected."

"Just one bite to tide me over? You've required rather a lot of me this morning, you know," he said with a grin.

"You started it," she said, taking a bite of the toast that he'd been looking at longingly.

He narrowed his eyes at her and she giggled. He snatched a piece of toast as she said "Matthew!" and he rolled away with a grin. He sat up on the side of the bed to eat it, careful to avoid sprinkling the bedclothes with crumbs.

"You needn't be so fastidious," Mary said, watching him drop crumbs on the carpet and wince. "They'll change the sheets after we leave."

He swallowed and twisted to look at her. "They change the beds every day?"

"Of course," Mary said. "What else would they do?"

He shot her another look and shook his head, then stood up and finished the toast, licking his fingers. He walked round the bed and came to sit beside her, enjoying the way that her eyes followed him appreciatively. She put her arms around her tray in an exaggerated protective gesture and he laughed.

"Don't worry, darling, the rest of your breakfast is not in any danger from me," he said, leaning forward to kiss her. There was a small exchange of crumbs in the transaction and he pulled away, slightly put off. She giggled. "What?" he asked.

"The look on your face," she said, and took a sip of her coffee.

His stomach growled again.

"Go, go," she said, waving him off. He stood and gathered up his discarded pyjamas, then straightened with the clothing in his arms and started towards the door to his dressing room.

"You're going in there dressed like that?" she asked.

He paused with his hand on the door handle and frowned at her in question.

"Bates will likely be waiting for you," she explained. "Papa has probably been down to breakfast for half an hour by now."

He looked up at the ceiling. The servants in this house were entirely too efficient. He wasn't sure he would ever become comfortable living here and found himself wishing for his morning routine at Crawley House. Molesley at least had the sense to leave him alone in the mornings. After, of course, Matthew had asked him to. Things went much more smoothly when he was left to his own devices. Speaking of which—

"I meant to tell you," he said, pulling on his pyjama bottoms, and Mary looked at him over the rim of her mug. "You were wonderful this morning." She smiled. "For your first time, it was rather...enthusiastic."

She looked discomfited at his frankness as she set down her mug, but she smiled and nodded. "Don't worry," she said, a glint coming into her eyes. "We'll try that again."

"Good," he said with mock seriousness, straightening and putting his hand on the door handle again. "With practice, I'm sure you'll be much improved in no time."

She made an indignant sound and twisted, grabbing his pillow. He laughed and ducked through the door as the pillow went flying past behind him. He popped his head back out a moment later, now that he was certain she didn't have any more ammunition to hand, and grinned when he saw the wide smile on her face.

"I love you," he said.

"Go!" she cried.

He drew back with a laugh and turned, closing the door behind him.

Bates stood near the window, watching him with an impassive expression but with eyes that were distinctly twinkling.

"Good morning, sir," the valet said.

Matthew straightened. "Good morning, Bates. Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"I would say so, yes."

Matthew walked past him and opened the wardrobe, nodding appreciatively when he saw his uniform hanging there in fine form. "You wouldn't be offended if I asked you not to attend me in the mornings, would you?"

Bates smiled, taking his cane off his arm and leaning on it as he turned. "Not at all, sir. In fact, I had rather expected it."

Matthew smiled and nodded at him. "Thank you, Bates."

Bates moved past him, heading towards the door. "I've laid out all your things in the bathroom," he said. "Just ring if you change your mind."

Matthew drifted over to the window and looked out on the grounds as the door clicked shut behind the valet. Matthew smiled. It really was a lovely morning.

* * *

Mary walked into the main ward of the hospital, carrying a basket over her arm. The room was filled with men in various states of care and injury and she skimmed quickly past them, not wanting to stare at the more gruesome wounds. Any of them could be Matthew—

She forced her mind back to her task: spotting Isobel. Her mother-in-law was standing beside a bed on the far side of the room, wrapping a fresh bandage around a leg amputated below the knee. Mary fixed a smile on her face as she passed the lines of beds. Isobel looked up as she approached, a warm smile quickly filling her features.

"Mary, dear!" she said, then returned to wrapping the wound. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you have a moment?" Mary asked.

Isobel nodded, then carefully set down the man's severed limb and put a hand on his shoulder. "There, Lieutenant Simmons, that should do for now. Have you taken your pills?"

The man nodded and tried to smile up at her, but he still looked miserable.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked.

"A book?" he asked. "Anything, really. I just want to take my mind off it. And maybe a pen and some paper? I'd like to write to my girl." A pained look crossed his face after the look of hope had passed, and Isobel quickly smiled at him.

"Of course you shall have those things. I'll tell Nurse Pickering at once. She'll be taking over for me."

"Thank you, Nurse Crawley," he said.

Isobel patted his shoulder and then straightened and came round the bed, following Mary from the ward.

"Is everything all right?" Isobel asked quietly, when they reached the hallway. It was obvious that the unspoken end of her question was "with Matthew?", but she was polite enough not to say it. Mary smiled. She could understand the older woman's preoccupation.

"Yes, he's fine," Mary said. "Actually, there's something I want to ask you about, and I wondered if you might like to take lunch with me." She gestured with the basket.

Isobel smiled and started down the hallway, untying her apron and pulling it over her head. They reached the end of the hallway, where there were a series of hooks and small shelves. She hung up the apron and gathered up her handbag.

"You should leave that basket for Major Clarkson," Isobel said, nodding towards his office. "I'm afraid Mrs Bird would be quite put out if I didn't come home for lunch, but I don't think he's stopped to eat since last night." She shook her head and knocked briefly on his office door. Hearing nothing, she pushed it open and peeked inside. It was empty. Mary followed her in and deposited the basket on the desk while Isobel quickly wrote a note on a piece of paper, then laid it atop the basket with a sigh. "He's been straight out, taking on the Stanwyck and Hanley hospitals as well, not to mention Farley Hall," she said. "And with no one to look after him…"

Mary smiled and nodded, making a mental note to look in on him later and see if she could offer any assistance.

When they emerged from his office, Isobel pulled the door closed and then saw a young woman reaching into a handbag on a shelf.

"Nurse Pickering!" she said, and the girl jumped in surprise and turned around.

"Nurse Crawley," Pickering said, her hand on her chest. "I didn't see you there."

"We were just leaving lunch for Major Clarkson," Isobel said, pulling the office door closed. "You haven't seen him recently, have you?"

Pickering nodded. "He just came in, but he was waylaid by a patient in the first Day Room."

"Very good. Would you tell him that Lady Mary has left lunch for him in his office?"

"Oh, there's no need to mention me," Mary said quickly. "He'll take it as a command that he has to eat it and then send a note of thanks to the house. Just tell him that lunch was delivered."

Pickering nodded, her eyes wide as she looked at Mary. Mary supposed that the girl might never have been spoken to by a member of the aristocracy before and she smiled at the young nurse, who bobbed an inexpert curtsey.

Isobel smiled. "Lieutenant Simmons mentioned a significant increase in pain," she said. "I've just changed his dressing and his wound looked a little worrisome. Please keep a close eye on him and tell me at once if you see any signs of infection. He also asked for a book to read and a pen and some paper to write a letter. Please see that he gets them."

"Yes ma'am," Pickering said.

"I'll be back by two o'clock," Isobel said. "Send to Crawley House if anyone needs me."

"I'm sure we'll manage until then, ma'am."

"Very good." Isobel nodded. She looked at Mary as Pickering walked away. "Will you join me for lunch? Mrs Bird's cucumber sandwiches are heavenly."

Mary smiled. "Certainly. Thank you."

When Isobel started towards the door that led outside, Mary put her hand on the older woman's arm.

"Actually," Mary said. "It might be more convenient if I ask you the question while we're still here."

Isobel turned towards her with nod.

"It's just," Mary looked down at her hands, then back up at Isobel, speaking quietly. "Matthew's feet. They look…uncomfortable."

Isobel straightened. "How bad?"

"Reddish. Wrinkled. Irritated," Mary answered, not sure what to say.

"Any greyish regions, swelling, or skin ulcers?"

Mary frowned, trying to recall what she'd seen. After his reactions to her attempts to question him about his scars, she'd not wanted to broach the topic of his feet. But she'd noticed them, particularly because he wasn't wearing socks as he usually did in bed.

"I don't think so."

Isobel looked relieved. "That's not so bad," she said.

"What is it?" Mary asked, trailing after Isobel as the older woman strode purposefully into a storeroom a short distance down the hallway.

"Probably just a mild case of trench foot," Isobel said. Mary nodded. She recalled reading a passing mention of the condition in the papers.

"What should I do?" she asked.

Isobel rummaged about in a cupboard for a moment and then turned around, handing Mary a small bottle. Mary looked at it: it was unlabelled.

"What's this?"

"Whale oil," Isobel replied, closing the cupboard door. "He's probably already been issued some, but just in case. Have him rub this in before he puts on his socks every day. More than once a day, if he has to change socks. And find out how many pairs he has." Isobel cocked her head to side. "Actually, we should probably send him back with a few more pairs. It couldn't hurt. I shall speak to Molesley."

"Oh, is he back already?" Mary asked, following Isobel from the room. They made their way down the hall and outside.

"He stops in once a day," Isobel said. "You know, just to check on things." She gave a fond smile and Mary chuckled.

"How is old Mr Molesley?"

Isobel shrugged as they passed under the stone archway. "Keeping up his spirits. He's not one to lie abed for long." She smiled at Mary. "How are you, my dear?"

"Oh, fine," Mary said. "Although Papa thinks I need cheering up." She said this last bit derisively, but Isobel was not so easily put off.

"And do you?"

Mary shrugged. "Of course not. What do I have to complain about?"

They walked in silence for a moment and then Isobel said, "You could come to live with me at Crawley House, you know."

Mary glanced at her. "I know. Thank you again, Isobel."

"I'm not suggesting it merely for your sake," the older woman said. "I do find it rather lonely without Matthew about. At least you have Edward to entertain you."

"Yes," Mary said.

"Molesley and Mrs Bird and Beth are all very kind, of course, but one finds it rather difficult to really befriend them."

"What about Granny?" Mary asked. "I gather that you visit often."

"Oh yes, that's true," Isobel said, then sighed. "But it's in the evenings when I feel his absence most acutely."

Mary nodded. She understood completely. It wasn't just that she missed his presence in her bed, but that she missed his presence in nearly everything: the conversations, the glances, the shared humour, the comfort that he  _knew_  her and he loved her still. She could busy herself during the days, but the evenings were emptier, the silence more profound, without Matthew beside her.

"I could come to dinner," she suggested.

Isobel smiled at her. "Oh, that would be lovely! Would Wednesday evenings suit?"

"All of them?" Mary asked, somewhat taken aback.

Isobel raised her eyebrows, tempering her enthusiasm. "I'm sorry; I presume too much. I shan't take advantage of your kind offer. Would once a month be too often?"

Mary paused and Isobel stopped beside her. "I'm sorry," Mary said. "I hadn't meant that to sound the way it did. Of course I would be honoured to spend Wednesday evenings at Crawley House. It seems only right; I should have thought of it long before now." Isobel smiled at this and Mary smiled back, relieved. "And it would be nice not to dress for dinner one night a week." She looked quickly at Isobel. "That is, unless you expected me to—"

"Oh, my dear," Isobel put her hand on Mary's arm. "You may wear whatever you like and I shall be delighted to have you. Mrs Bird will be excited to show off her skills for you, too. I'm afraid with just me it's been rather boring for her."

Mary smiled and they resumed walking. "I'm looking forward to her cucumber sandwiches," she said, and Isobel laughed.

"Thank you for bringing me lunch, Mary dear," she said. "And you were very sweet to Pickering. She's only just arrived, you see."

"You sound surprised," Mary said dryly.

"Not at all," Isobel said. "Although I admit it took me longer than Matthew to see your finer qualities."

"I must be slipping. No one was meant to know that I'm so warm-hearted."

Isobel smiled. "Oh, that explains it."

Mary tilted her head thoughtfully. "Strangely enough, these chinks in my armour only seem to show themselves when he is around." She smirked. "But please don't tell him I said so."

"It will be our secret," Isobel answered with a grin.

They walked on in a brief silence and then Mary sighed.

"To be honest, Isobel, my bringing lunch wasn't entirely altruistic."

Isobel frowned. "What do you need?"

Now that she had come to it, Mary was not entirely sure what to say.

"Is it about Matthew?" Isobel asked. "Is anything…wrong?"

Mary looked at Isobel with a quick smile. "No. Nothing serious. I just need some advice and I thought you might know what to do, as you've known him for so much longer than I have."

"Ah," Isobel said.

Mary chuckled. "You sound as though you know what I plan to say."

"That is neither here nor there," Isobel said with a smile. "Go on."

"He won't talk about his experiences in the war," Mary said.

Isobel nodded. "None of them do."

"I don't mind that so much," Mary continued. "But I wish he would let me in just a little. Sometimes it feels as though I'm talking to a polite stranger."

"What about his letters? Surely you've exchanged some since he left…"

"Yes, several dozen," Mary said with a smile, "and I treasure them. But they are light and diverting. Nothing about his dreams or his hopes or his…hurts." She sighed and gestured aimlessly with her hands. "I can't fault him for any of what he's written, Isobel. But whenever I try to ask him about more, he just pushes me away."

"And you want me to tell you how to convince him otherwise," Isobel said.

"I suppose."

Isobel smiled. "Well, I'm afraid you have me there. I haven't been able to change his mind about anything since he was three."

Mary laughed, then sighed.

"Give him time, dear. If an idea is right, he'll usually come around to it. If it's not, perhaps you'll be the one coming around to his point of view." At Mary's sceptical look, Isobel smiled. "Or at least you'll better understand  _why_  he wants to do it his way, and you can work with that."

Mary made a thoughtful sound. Isobel chuckled.

Mary smiled, then looked up with surprise to see the subject of their conversation standing by the gate to Crawley House, watching them approach. She waved to him and he waved back. He smiled as they came down the road, and he pushed open the gate for his mother before turning to Mary. "Hello, Mother. Darling. What a pleasant surprise! Why didn't you tell me you'd be coming here for lunch?"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment invitation," Isobel said.

"How is old Mr Molesley?" Mary asked, following Isobel through the gate.

"Eager to be back in his garden," Matthew answered with a smile.

"And did Papa bore you to death with the cottages?" Mary asked.

"Of course not," he said. "They look splendid, although progress has slowed since the war began, of course. I was grateful that he took the time to give me a tour, considering that there's no longer any need to continue teaching me the running of the estate."

Matthew pulled the gate closed and came up behind Mary. She felt his hand caress her bottom as they mounted the step and she shot him a look. He grinned.

"I don't see why he shouldn't continue," Isobel said, unpinning her hat and leaving it on the side-table in the hall. Matthew hung his officer's cap on a wall hook. "It can't hurt to teach you everything possible, especially if something were to happen to him before Edward can take over."

"I agree," Mary said. "Mama's been at him to name you Trustee ever since he started suggesting that he resume his old commission."

"And you're all right with that?" Matthew asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Mary said.

"I would become Edward's legal guardian," he said.

Mary nodded and turned to look at him. "And it would fall to me if Mama were unable as well."

"Yes."

"Well then," she said, and she turned away.

Isobel carried her post into the sitting room, then came back into the hall just as Mrs Bird appeared.

"Luncheon is served, Mrs Crawley. Oh!" The cook noticed Mary. "Lady Mary! I'd only expected Mrs Crawley and Mr Crawley."

"You can make up some more cucumber sandwiches, can't you?" Isobel asked cheerfully. "I'm sorry for not warning you of a third for lunch. I only just learned of it myself."

Mrs Bird looked affronted at the suggestion that she couldn't provide a full-course meal for an entire household at a moment's notice. "Of course I can, Mrs Crawley."

"Excellent!" Isobel said, as Mrs Bird disappeared back into the kitchen. "Shall we?"

They settled themselves around the table and talked of goings-on in the village; the excellence of Mrs Bird's cooking; Edith's pregnancy and Sir Anthony's frequent, unexplained absences; Isobel's expanded responsibilities at the hospital now that Major Clarkson was travelling so much; and the desperate need for more nurses and more beds. Mary was enjoying herself and lunch was nearly finished when Isobel suddenly said:

"Oh! That reminds me: Mary tells me you've got a mild case of trench foot, Matthew. You've been using the oil and changing your socks like I wrote to you, haven't you?"

Matthew frowned. "Of course I have been, Mother. I could hardly  _avoid_  it, what with the daily inspections and Davis always at me about it."

"Davis?" Mary asked.

"My soldier-servant," Matthew answered, not looking at her.

"I've given Mary a bottle of whale oil for you, and I'll have Molesley pack you more socks before you go," Isobel said.

"Thank you, Mother," Matthew said, managing not to sound all that grateful. Mary repressed a smile. When she looked up, Matthew was frowning at her.

"You needn't look so put out," she said, straightening and glaring back at him. "We're just trying to look after you."

"I don't—" He bit back whatever he had been intending to say and gave them both a tight smile. "Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a stack of post that needs attending to." He looked at Isobel. "It's in my desk, I presume?"

He rose from the table as she nodded, frowning up at him.

"I don't appreciate being set upon by both of you at once," he said, and then his expression softened and he sighed. "Thank you. Truly. I just—need to be left alone, not inspected and found wanting."

"That's not—" Mary cut herself off when she saw Isobel's hand flash a warning under the table.

After a moment, Matthew nodded and left. Mary and Isobel sat for several seconds in silence.

"I see what you mean," Isobel finally said.

Mary sighed, putting her napkin on the table.

"Pick your battles, my dear, and know when to stop pressing him. Let him come to you."

"But will he?" Mary asked.

"Trust him. He values your opinion a great deal." Isobel frowned at the empty doorway. "There's more to this than merely a desire not to be poked and prodded. You'll need to be patient if you want to find it out."

Mary nodded, then put on a smile. "We'll see you at dinner tonight, I trust?"

"Of course," Isobel said. "And each night until he leaves, I hope."

"You're very welcome," Mary said, pushing back her chair to rise. "And thank you for the excellent luncheon."

"Stop by anytime, my dear, and don't forget my offer," Isobel said, rising beside her. Mary met her eyes, knowing that her mother-in-law was not referring merely to Wednesday evening dinners. Mary wasn't ready to leave Downton Abbey, wasn't sure that she ever would be, really, but she was grateful for Isobel's generosity. Mary was grateful for the ease that seemed to be growing between them, an entirely unexpected thing to her, but something that she knew pleased Matthew as well.

"I won't," she answered.

Beth appeared in the hall, bobbing a curtsey and holding Mary's handbag for her as she checked her reflection in the hall mirror.

"Good day," Isobel said, watching Mary step out. "Shall I tell Matthew where to find you?"

"I'll tell Carson if I go anywhere unexpected," Mary replied. "I'll see you this evening."

Isobel smiled and waited until Mary had closed the gate behind herself, and then Isobel stepped back inside and closed the door to Crawley House. Mary stood for a moment looking up at it. Matthew was somewhere inside, probably frowning at bills or the like. She turned and started down the road towards home, unsettled but determined not to let it sour their few remaining days together. This difference between them was, after all, small compared to the reality that once he left, she might never see him again. She swallowed, pushed that thought aside, fixed a smile on her face as a cart passed her by, and kept going.

* * *

Isobel came to stand in the doorway of the sitting room, watching as Matthew looked out the window after Mary's retreating form.

"Don't do this, Matthew. Don't push her away."

"Let me be, Mother," he said. "I know."

She nodded and turned away.

Matthew closed his eyes and exhaled.

* * *

It was late afternoon when he found her sitting on the bench under the tree.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, pulling off his cap with a smile. "May I?" He gestured at the seat beside her.

Mary shook her head and straightened. "I'd rather take a turn about the grounds. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he said, fitting his cap back on his head as she stood, still holding her book.

"What do you have there?" he asked.

She frowned and glanced at the cover. "Just a G.A. Henty. But I wasn't really reading it."

He nodded and looked away. "Which way shall we go?"

She chose a direction and he fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for a short while, taking in the early summer scenery. She waited.

"I'm being unfair to you," he said.

Mary snorted.

He frowned at her.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, glancing away from him. "Go on."

They fell into silence again and then Matthew stopped, causing her to stop beside him.

"You see, the thing is," he said. "It's not really that I can't: it's that I don't  _want_  to tell you everything."

"You promised me honesty," Mary said.

"And what of your promise?" he asked.

"I've not lied to you."

"No, but you haven't told me everything, either," he said. "Why not?"

"What is there to tell?" She shrugged and looked away. "I live the pampered life of a rich woman with a houseful of servants tending to my every need."

"See? You're doing it again: hiding from me. Possibly even from yourself, I don't know." He turned away in frustration.

Mary frowned at his back. "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones," she said.

"Don't quote proverbs at me," he snapped, turning to face her.

"Fine," she said tightly. "I'll tell you about how I spend my days reading, and choosing dresses for dinner, and wishing I still had Diamond to ride, just to escape the tedium. I'll mention whatever other distractions I can find to stop myself wondering just how close you come to dying each day. Is that what you want to hear?"

Matthew frowned and looked away.

"God, Matthew, I feel so, so—" she clenched her teeth and jerked her arms up, "— _useless!_ " Her book slapped against her thigh as she dropped her arms again, and she looked away through eyes that threatened unwanted tears. Why were they even fighting? She hadn't seen him in ten  _months_  and she was so relieved that he was alive and well and they were arguing about the minutiae of their  _letters?_  She sighed and looked at him; he was watching her carefully.

"How do we do this: make love at night and fight in the day?" he asked quietly.

"We fight at night, too."

He chuckled and nodded. "And technically, I suppose we made love in the light of day this morning."

Mary smiled and looked down. He stepped close to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I do love you so terribly much," he said.

She looked up at him and nodded. "I know." She sighed. "I shan't ask for more than you are willing to give. But just know that I'll worry for you all the same, even if you don't tell me what you're facing."

"I know," he said, releasing her. They began to walk again. "You must understand, darling, that when I write to you, it's  _my_  distraction. I want to forget my surroundings for a short while and imagine how you might smile when you read my words. I know that you worry for me and I want to do my best to lift your spirits."

Mary gave him a pained smile. "I know, and you do. I don't want you to relive...whatever has happened to you. If all that you can tell me is that you're all right, then I shall just have to be content with that."

He looked at her, giving her a tight, grateful smile.

"I suppose I could try to say something more in my letters," he said. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Perhaps mention any topics you'd like me to avoid while you're here," she said.

He sighed and stopped again, turning to look at the green landscape around them. She watched him frown at nothing in particular. "It's my fault, I suppose," he said. "I don't know what I was expecting while I was back." He glanced at her with a smile. "Being alone with you, of course." He looked away again. "Seeing Mother and the whole family. Sleeping in a comfortable bed and eating three square meals a day." He looked down at his feet. "Grass."

"That's why you've lost weight," she murmured, a little shocked.

He squinted into the distance. "You can't blame them," he said. "Sometimes the supply lines are blocked or broken. It can be especially difficult if the line moves."

She didn't understand all of what he was saying, but she remained silent, hungry for anything that he would tell her.

"Even on the best weeks, they'll only deliver the meals every other day, and you're expected to ration what you get in the meantime. It's enough, but only just." He chuckled. "As long as the rats don't get to it first, of course."

"Rats?!"

Matthew seemed to come to himself and he turned suddenly at her exclamation.

"Oh my God," she said, putting a hand over her mouth, as something else that she'd seen on his body suddenly made a terrible amount of sense. "Those were  _bites!_ "

Her eyes shot to his for confirmation and he frowned at her, finally giving a curt nod. He looked at the ground, then away again, his jaw working.

"This is why I don't want to talk about it," he said stiffly. "I'll say too much." He turned to her, pleading with his hands. "I don't want to bring it all home to you, don't you see? I'm out there so that  _there_  never comes  _here!_ " He shook his head and turned away. "Being out there for so long, it's easy to lose perspective. Things that ought to be horrifying are commonplace. The natural response is to recoil, but I can't, Mary. I must face it head on; I must remain calm for my men. The only way for me to take care of my men is to keep going, to do what I must to handle it, because someone has to and as their officer, that someone is me."

His voice had gone dead in a way that chilled her and she stared at him with wide eyes, not sure that she'd truly understood her earlier wish to know more than the polite stranger. He was only giving her the smallest glimpse now, she was certain, but her imagination flooded her with ideas of what he must be leaving out. To grow accustomed to living with rats!  _And death_ , she reminded herself. She still couldn't picture him killing anyone or being brutal in any way, really.  _But he must have,_  she thought.  _He must have killed more than once by now._  How many times?  _No! I can't go down that path!_

"Mary?" she heard him say, his voice familiar again: warm and concerned, an edge of a rumble as he said her name. She loved his voice; why hadn't she noticed it properly before? She couldn't bear the thought of never hearing it again. She opened her eyes.

"You see, after this, why I can't possibly complain in  _my_  letters," she said with a weak smile.

He stepped close to her and wiped at her cheek and she realised that a tear had escaped. She started to wipe at it hurriedly, but he shushed her and kissed her gently. She squeezed her eyes shut again, their edges burning, as she responded.

They parted and she stood in the circle of his arms, her book pressed between their chests. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Thank you for this," she said.

He let his eyes fall away from hers and he nodded. She turned and began to walk again, this time holding his hand in hers. He fell into step beside her, squeezing her fingers.

She thumped her book against her thigh and suddenly looked up.

"Oh! There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"What's that?" he asked.

"How are you able to keep books at the front?"

"Books?" he frowned. "I don't keep books—well, I suppose I have the one, but that's it."

"Only one?" she asked. "What is it?"

"A pocket Bible," he said. "They issued them with the gear."

She nodded, then frowned.

"So how are you able to find all the quotations you put in your letters?"

He shrugged. "I just remember them."

She stared at him. "You 'just remember them'."

"Yes," he said, shooting her a puzzled glance. "Don't you?"

"No," she said. "I've the whole of Papa's library to scour through when I write back to you."

He smiled. "No wonder it's such a challenge keeping up with you."

"Keeping up with  _me?_ " she exclaimed. "You're in the midst of a  _war_  and you're quoting Shakespeare and Hesiod and the  _Aeneid_  at me  _from memory?_ "

He frowned at her. "Is there something wrong?"

She gave a huff of frustration and looked away. "Just when I start to think I'm clever…"

He laughed. "You  _are_  clever! Didn't I just say it was a job keeping up with you?"

"Matthew," she fixed him in a fond scowl. "I have yet to find a single error in any of the quotations you've sent me and may I remind you, you sent me an entire sonnet recently?"

He chuckled. "Ah, yes. 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love—'"

"Yes, never mind showing off in person. You've already impressed me enough for one day."

"But that's one of my favourites!"

"Obviously," she said with a smirk.

He shot her a mock-wounded look.

"I was right: you really  _are_  clever enough to become Lord Chancellor someday," she muttered.

He gave a short laugh. "What's this?"

She shrugged. "When Aunt Rosamund was trying to convince me to put you off until after Edward was born," Mary explained, "I told her that you were terribly clever, that you might end up Lord Chancellor. She was unimpressed."

He laughed again. "She was right to be."

"I don't think so," Mary said.

"It takes more than cleverness to become Lord Chancellor."

"Of course it does," she said. "You have to be well-placed with all the right sorts of people."

"Yes, and there's one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Ambition."

She chuckled and nodded.

He glanced at her with a sudden frown. "Which I don't have. Not that sort, at least."

"I know," she said.

He paused and put his hand on her arm, bringing her to a stop beside him. "It doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it?" she asked, frowning at him.

"Well, if that was your argument to your Aunt Rosamund—"

Mary waved her hand dismissively. "It wasn't the main thrust of it, just a response to her horror at the suggestion that I would have you even without the title."

He smiled. "So what  _was_  the main thrust of it?"

She grinned slyly at him. "It was clearly a charity case: you  _are_  such a dull boy, after all."

He smirked at her. "You didn't seem to think so last night."

She smiled and turned away, beginning to walk again. He came up beside her.

"Honestly," she said, "I must confess to not having such ambition, myself. I've seen what high society has to offer and the prospect of being under such scrutiny, of being required to entertain so many dignitaries and heads of state on a regular rotation, with the additional threat of causing some political  _faux pas_ , would be a tiresome pill to swallow." She smiled at him. "I'd much rather have you to myself than have the 'honour' of being the wife of a man who is never home."

He chuckled and nodded. "I think we understand each other perfectly."

She warmed at this and smiled again.

"You know," he mused. "In my worst moments, I used to fear that I could never be good enough for you." She glanced at him with a frown and he nodded. "When you treated me with disdain, or tossed me over for Sir Anthony."

She clucked her tongue and shook her head.

"It seemed that even if I had the title, I would only feel a sham in the role, not a  _real_  earl at all. Certainly not in your class."

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed.

"It was foolishness, I know," he said. "But the heart isn't always a rational thing."

"It almost never is," she said dryly.

He chuckled. "Yes, well, when you wrote to tell me of Edward's birth, it hadn't been a particularly good day." He squinted into the distance. "I was feeling…well, never mind what I was feeling. To know that I would never be able to give you the house or the title, after everything you had endured…I wondered if you regretted marrying me. I'd left you, after all, and I wasn't—"

He shook his head and sighed, slowing again.

"I will never be able to give you anything close to the life you're accustomed to, Mary."

"That's not true," she said, stopping to look at him. At his frown, she tilted her head. "Yes, perhaps the grand house and the army of servants and the latest fashions of the Season might be out of our reach, but I find myself less attached to them than I thought I would be. War makes one consider what is most important." Matthew smiled in agreement at this. Mary went on: "Papa would not have given his blessing if he thought you couldn't provide for me and any children we might have."

"And even if I were still the heir, you would be a lawyer's wife far longer than you would be a Countess," he pointed out.

She nodded. "For all my disagreements with Papa, he does give me one thing that I treasure: his love." She smiled sadly at this. "He might not always know how to express it, but I know what it is to be loved by my family and to love them in return. Not all families in our circle enjoy that privilege. Most, I suspect, are far more miserable than they let on." She looked away for a moment. "I had expected to be so, myself."

He frowned. "What? Why?"

She gave him a tight smile. "I had not thought to marry for love," she said. "Especially not after—well, you know."

He nodded. She stared at his tie a moment; it was a bit crooked. She smiled and looked at him, reaching up to straighten it. "I wouldn't trade you for any of it."

He blinked and smiled at her, cupping her cheek and stroking his thumb across it. "Have I told you how much I love you yet, today?"

"Yes, several times," she said, raising an eyebrow. "But as I never tire of hearing it, you probably ought to say it again."

He laughed and kissed her. "Will that do?"

She nodded. He pulled back, swallowing, and they returned to walking again.

"You were wrong about one thing," he said.

"Only one? And what is that, pray?"

"You should feel free to complain in your letters."

"I couldn't possibly. My problems are comically small compared to what you face."

"No, they aren't," he said. "Pain is real, no matter how unimportant its infliction might seem. I  _want_  to know what bothers you, what hurts you," he said. "I want to know  _you_."

"That's how I feel about you," she said, not looking at him.

He was silent for a long moment.

"Please," she said. Then she smirked. "Besides, it will give me something more useful to pray than merely, 'God, please keep him safe.'"

He met her eyes at that, first frowning in surprise and then letting a smug smile lift his cheeks. "You pray for me?"

"Well, of course," she said. "I  _am_  a good wife, you know."

He laughed. "Of course," he said, echoing her tone. Then he grew serious. "I pray for you, too."

"Whatever for?"

"Oh, Mary," he sighed.

"What sort of an answer is that?" she asked sharply.

He chuckled and rubbed her back a moment. "The only one I can give you right now. I love you."

"You're going to scandalise the servants with these public displays of affection," she said.

"They're made of stout stuff." He grinned at her and she laughed.

"That's as may be," she said, pulling away from him. "But we'll never make it round the house before dinner at this rate. You'll just have to keep your hands off me."

He made a disappointed sound. "Why don't we just go in now?" He gestured towards the library doors, a smirk on his face. "Get an early start on dressing for dinner."

She snorted. "And risk Papa catching us running giggling up the stairs like a pair of guilty schoolchildren?"

"Not  _schoolchildren_ ," he corrected.

"It would be insupportable at such an hour," she said, continuing to walk briskly. "Not with the family and the servants about."

He sighed and shook his head as he kept pace with her, still smiling. "As you wish. But know that you won't escape so easily tonight."

"I have no desire to," she said. "In fact, I plan to beg off with a headache directly after dinner and you're to come check on me no more than twenty minutes later."

He burst out laughing, then took her hand and pulled her close, kissing her on the cheek as she overbalanced against him. She squealed in surprise and leapt away, glancing at the house.

"Matthew—!" she tried to say, but he caught her and pulled her behind the laurel and kissed her thoroughly, whereupon she ceased struggling—what was the point in resisting such a madman, anyway?—and kissed him back.

* * *

Robert stood watching them from the library, called to the glass doors by the sound of Mary's happy shriek. When they disappeared behind the bushes, he chuckled and turned away. Even in the midst of this war, life went on. His youngest was healthy and a son, and his eldest was happy in her marriage to a good man, a brave man. Even Edith and Anthony seemed a good match, despite all expectations. His whole family was thriving. Robert didn't know how he'd managed to find himself with such good fortune, but he was grateful.

He heard the dressing gong and smiled. Time to go out and call them in. He grinned with anticipation as he pushed open the door and stepped outside.

* * *

Mary rode with Matthew to the train station to see him off. When they arrived, Branson gave him his bag with a nod and Matthew smiled his thanks. He and Mary walked along the platform until they reached the first-class cars and there they stopped. He turned to her, not bothering to hide his reluctance to leave her again. Each time he left, it felt as if he were tempting fate. How many more chances would they have to be together?

She didn't say anything, just threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He held her with his free arm, but lightly. He could feel himself already starting to pull away from this life as he turned back to the front. He would need to bury this part of himself down deep, to protect it for her when he returned. She released him, her arms sliding off his shoulders. She looked down and opened her handbag.

"I wanted to give you this," she said, holding something out to him. He took it: it was a toy dog. "I forgot to pack it for last time. It's my lucky charm: I've had it always. So you must promise to bring it back without a scratch."

He smiled down at it, imagining her playing with it in the nursery as a child, and then he looked up at her. "Won't you need it?"

"Not as much as you. So look after it. Please."

He nodded and unbuttoned the lower front pocket of his tunic, slipping the dog inside. "I'll try not to be a hero, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Just come back, safe and sound."

He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Did you have a happy time, these last three days?" she asked.

He looked up and smiled at her. "I did. It was all I'd hoped for and more." He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up to cup her cheek with his hand. "Thank you for saying 'yes'," he said, and she nodded with a tight smile, her eyes flickering away from his and then back again. His hand drew her close and she came to him eagerly, meeting his lips with her own. They drew apart.

"Mary, if I don't come back—"

"But—"

"No. If I don't…then do remember how very glad I am that we have had this time together. I mean it. You've been more patient with me than I deserve. I could not ask for a better partner, lover, or friend. You send me off to war a happy man."

She swallowed and nodded, her eyes wide, not quite smiling but clearly moved by his words.

He turned away, then paused. "Would you do something for me? Would you look after Mother, if anything happens?"

Mary shook her head, dismissing his fears. "Of course we will," she said. "But it won't."

"It's just that she puts on such a brave face to the world," he said. "But I don't think she would know what to do with herself if she didn't have me around to prod at and preen about." Mary laughed despite the tears in her eyes. "She mustn't be left alone," he said, serious again.

"She won't be, I promise you," Mary said. "I…think we're coming to understand one another better."

"Good," he said, smiling.

She glanced over his shoulder as the conductor blew the whistle.

"Good-bye then, darling," she said, coming forward suddenly and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "And such good luck!"

He nodded and looked at her a moment, swallowing hard.

"Good-bye, Mary." He drew in a breath, feeling his chest shudder as his body protested the parting. "And God bless you!"

He stepped up into the train, swung his bag on to the seat beside him, and sat down, pulling the door closed. She stood outside on the platform, her face pale and her eyes wide, clutching her handbag. She gave him a tight smile and he returned it, watching her for as long as he could as the train pulled away, and feeling a burning pain in his chest.

He pulled off his cap and set it on his bag and stared upwards.  _God_ , he begged.  _Please let this war be over soon. And please…draw her close to you._

He closed his eyes, feeling the rumbling of the train underneath him, as it brought him ever closer to hell.

* * *

 

Excerpt taken from Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare.


	16. Chapter 16

_16_

**September 1915**

"I still do not see the hurry," Cousin Violet said, looking out the car's window. "We don't even know whether it will be a girl or a boy yet. How can one be expected to give the proper gifts?"

"I think it's an excellent, modern idea," Isobel said. "How very practical of Sybil to organize the luncheon _before_ the birth! This way, Edith can benefit from our experience and receive useful items beforehand, rather than being required to procure them all herself. Although what use an infant might have for fine silver is beyond me."

"It's tradition," Violet said. "The grandmothers always give silver."

"Not all traditions are worth keeping."

"Yes, well, you're welcome to your own counsel."

Isobel suppressed a smirk. "I will admit that my gift, although more practical, is likely be disposed of more quickly," she said. "At least you can take comfort in knowing that the child will one day be able to look at the silver with great admiration."

Violet sniffed and looked out the window.

Branson pulled the car on to the long, curved drive of Locksleigh House and the two women watched the modest estate rise above them. It didn't have the size or grandeur of Downton Abbey, but it was still an impressive display to Isobel's eyes.

"Mrs Chetwood," Isobel said, when they'd stepped into the foyer. "How nice to see you!"

Mrs Chetwood grinned. "And you, Mrs Crawley. I wouldn't have stayed away for the world. I faithfully promised Anthony that I would give him a full report."

"He must be very proud," Isobel said.

"Fit to bursting," Mrs Chetwood replied. "And how is your boy?"

"Matthew?" Isobel said. "As well as can be expected, I suppose." She smiled. "His letters are cheerful enough."

"Charlie and Arnold are the same in their letters," Mrs Chetwood replied.

The two women exchanged a look of understanding and then Mrs Chetwood turned to Violet with a warm smile.

"Lady Grantham," she said.

"Penelope, dear," Violet said, leaning forward to exchange a brief greeting.

Mrs Chetwood stood back and smiled. "We're just through here. We've already settled in the dining room and pressed a snack on Edith."

The butler was standing beside a door leading off the foyer and he inclined his head as he pulled it open for the three women.

"Luncheon will be served directly, ma'am," he said.

"Thank you, Maxwell," Mrs Chetwood replied. Isobel and Violet preceded her into the dining room.

"Granny, Cousin Isobel," Mary said with a smile, indicating Isobel's chair.

A very young footman stood beside a nearby chair, which Violet settled herself in. Isobel took a seat on the far side of the table beside Mary, nodding her thanks to Maxwell when he finished helping her into her chair. She smiled and nodded to each of the gathered women. Edith sat at the head of the table, a wan smile on her face. Sybil and Cousin Cora sat to either side of her, Mary on Sybil's other side, and Lady Rosamund beside Cora. Violet sat directly across from Isobel, and Miss Napier and Mrs Chetwood occupied the final two seats. Everyone exchanged greetings and pleasantries while Maxwell took the boxes that Branson had brought in and set them on the sideboard next to all the other wrapped gifts. The two men left the room, pulling the door closed behind them.

"Now that we've all arrived," Sybil said brightly, drawing her eyes away from the door, "I thought we might play a game. Amelia said that it was good fun at Lady Sarah Kendall's tea party."

"What sort of game?" Cora asked with a smile.

"Wouldn't it be better to wait until after luncheon?" Violet said. "We wouldn't want to give anyone indigestion."

Isobel suppressed a smile.

"I rather agree," Mary said dryly. "You must let us first adjust to the shock of celebrating Edith's baby _before_ it arrives."

Sybil gave her an exasperated, amused look. "I was just going to suggest that we try guessing the names that Edith and Anthony have chosen."

"Oh," Edith said. "I—we haven't decided yet—"

"Of course you haven't, dear," Cora said, patting Edith's hand. Cora shot a reproving look at Sybil. "There's no need to hurry. You still have a plenty of time."

"Lady Sarah's party _was_ fun," Miss Napier observed with a smile. "Although she made it quite clear that no matter how astute the guess, no one would learn the child's name until it was properly announced."

"I should hope not," Violet said.

"Really, all of this trouble over a name," Mrs Chetwood said. "Charles and I had settled on two possible names right at the start."

"I suppose it's easier when your husband has his heart set on a Junior," Cora said.

Mrs Chetwood chuckled and nodded.

"Reginald's had been," Isobel said. "But it took us so long to have Matthew that when he finally arrived, 'gift from God' seemed more appropriate."

The room fell into a brief silence. Mary looked at her with interest, but said nothing.

"You are very fortunate, Edith," Lady Rosamund said. "To have such happiness so soon after your wedding."

Isobel looked at Lady Rosamund, considering the woman's own childlessness and wondering what story lay behind her eyes.

Edith ducked her head with a smile and ran a hand over her belly. "Sometimes I wish for it to be over. Mornings have been quite difficult." There was a general chuckle of understanding amongst the older women. "But I'm so grateful to have a daily reminder of Anthony, especially now."

The group again fell into silence and then Mrs Chetwood said:

"Despite the discomfort, dear, it is a blessing to know where you child is and to know he is safe."

There was a chorus of agreement and then Sybil said, "What a dreary lot we all are! Now we really _must_ play a game to cheer us all up."

"I don't see the saucers and teaspoons laid out yet," Violet said, clearly suppressing a chuckle. "How can we hope to predict the next pregnancy without sufficient silverware?"

All the older women chuckled and of course all eyes went to Mary, who frowned.

"Saucers and teaspoons?" she asked.

"If two teaspoons are accidentally placed on the same saucer, it's thought that that woman will be the next one expecting," Cora explained. "It worked once for me."

"Truly?" Sybil asked, excited. "For which of us?"

"Edward."

"Oh!" Edith said with a smile.

"Did it really?" Sybil asked, pressing her palms together, her fingertips near her lips. "You must have been so excited."

"I didn't think much of it at the time, to be honest," Cora said. "But later, I wondered." She smiled and smoothed her serviette. "So many things about his birth seemed miraculous."

Mary reached for her wine glass, her sigh so slight as to be almost imperceptible.

"Lord Grantham must be so proud," Mrs Chetwood said.

"He is." Cora beamed.

As Isobel glanced away from Mary, her eyes briefly caught Lady Rosamund's and Violet's. Violet frowned slightly.

"I suspect the two teaspoons have little to do with divination," Isobel said, putting on a smile. "And more to do with the way one loses a bit of one's mind while pregnant."

Mrs Chetwood laughed and Edith covered her mouth briefly with her hand. When she drew it away, she was smiling.

"So it isn't just me?" she asked. "I've been setting things down and forgetting where I left them, and I keep going into rooms and then stopping in the middle, not sure why I went in."

Violet chuckled. "I think that's just aging, my dear."

Mrs Chetwood, Lady Rosamund, and Isobel laughed this time.

"So true," Cora said with a smile.

"Edith isn't _that_ old," Sybil said.

"Granny is just teasing," Mary murmured to Sybil.

"Is she?" Edith asked with a smirk, and took a sip of her wine.

They all looked up as Maxwell entered with a tray, the young footman on his heels. Lunch was quickly served and the soft clinks of silver and china filled the space for a short while. Then Lady Rosamund said:

"These sorts of parties before the birth are becoming quite the thing in London. I've been invited to half a dozen so far."

"Why is everyone in such a hurry?" Violet asked.

"Perhaps with the war on, there's a greater sense of urgency," Mary replied.

They quieted again, and then Miss Napier looked across at Isobel.

"How have the improvements to Downton's hospital gone?" the younger woman asked. "Is the entire building wired for electricity now?"

Isobel brightened. "Oh yes, it's been a godsend. Although," she said, "even with the whole space better equipped, I'm not sure how much longer we'll be able to handle all the men coming in. They arrive more quickly than they leave, I'm afraid."

"I thought Major Clarkson had said that there were three unused wards," Sybil said. "Have they filled up already?"

"Not quite yet," Isobel said. "But we cannot continue taking in men at this rate for much longer. We'll have to convert some of the rooms not intended for medical care into additional wards. And that does not even take into account the usual levels of care required by the community during peacetime. Right now, we're reserving one of the day rooms for the local cases, but that's not without its challenges."

"Such as?" Sybil asked.

"Well, we had been using the room as a place to coordinate all the meals that are delivered each day, but I've been forced to move that operation into the nurses' break room."

"Where do they take their breaks, then?"

"Really, Sybil, this is not the time or the place for such a detailed discussion of the hospital's workings," Cora said, not meeting Isobel's eyes. "You can take it up with Cousin Isobel when you see her on Thursday evening."

Isobel gave Sybil a cheering smile. "I'm very pleased by your interest, Sybil, and we can certainly speak more of it later."

"Why do you take such an interest?" Violet asked Sybil. "Surely it can be no business of yours."

Sybil lifted her chin, glancing briefly at Isobel before settling her gaze on Violet. "I take an interest in everything, Granny, you know that. Besides," she said, looking around the table. "Don't you all want to do everything in your power to help our men at the front?"

"Of course we do, dear," Cora said. "But that doesn't mean we must discuss it over lunch. Let's turn our attention to cheering up Edith! That's why we're here, after all."

"It's all right," Edith said, her smile looking tired. "I don't mind hearing about the hospital. I take an interest in things, too."

"Bravo," Isobel said.

Violet's expression was less than pleased, and she turned to Edith with a fresh smile. "You'll have plenty to occupy your interest soon enough, I assure you."

Edith smiled. Mary looked down at her plate.

"You must be looking forward to your first great-grandchild," Mrs Chetwood said to Violet. "I can only imagine! My Arnold's wife just had their second child."

"Oh, congratulations!" Isobel said. "I'd heard she was expecting, but not that it had arrived."

"Three weeks ago," Mrs Chetwood confirmed with a nod. "A girl, Miss Anna Marie Chetwood."

"What a lovely name," Miss Napier said.

"I think I should like to have a daughter named 'Anna'," Sybil said.

Mary looked askance at her. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Sybil asked. "It's a very pretty name. And all the Annas I've known have been lovely people."

"Hear, hear," Isobel said, lifting her glass.

"How many have you known, exactly?" Mary asked Sybil. "Not counting my maid."

Sybil gave her a look, then gave the question a moment's thought. "Four. Anna Smith," she nodded at Mary. "Anna Petrie, Lady Anna Goldthwaite, and I loved that Trollope novel."

"You can't possibly include a fictional character in your list," Lady Rosamund said. "That's ridiculous."

"I liked _Lady Anna_ ," Violet protested.

"So did I, but it's the logic of the thing," Lady Rosamund said.

"Let's not start making arguments about logic," Violet said. "It doesn't suit you."

Lady Rosamund smirked. "It suits me more than you know, Mama. Marmaduke was quite enamoured with the logic of my arguments."

"Among other things," Violet replied.

Lady Rosamund appeared undaunted, and she merely lifted her glass to her lips with a smile.

"How did you meet your husband?" Isobel asked Lady Rosamund. "By all accounts, he seemed the most accomplished of gentlemen."

Violet's expression was disapproving as she reached for her wine glass, but the smile that lit Lady Rosamund's face was glowing.

"Oh, he was," Lady Rosamund said, setting down her glass. "And how kind of you to ask! It is a marvellous story..."

* * *

"Will Anthony return in time for the birth, do you think?" Mary asked quietly, leaning towards Edith as the women around them exclaimed over the various gifts and exchanged stories of their own children.

Edith frowned and rubbed her belly absentmindedly.

"I don't know," she said. "In his last letter, he said he hoped he could get away, but that was three weeks ago. A great deal can change in three weeks."

"Yes," Mary said, looking down at her teacup.

She was surprised a moment later when Edith's hand rested briefly on her wrist. The two sisters' eyes met in a rare moment of shared understanding, and then Mary forced herself to smile. She lifted her teacup to her mouth, without any real desire to drink but taking the excuse to dislodge Edith's hand. Edith drew it away with a sigh.

"At least he's not at the front," Mary said, referring to Anthony. "There's that to be thankful for."

She eyed Edith hopefully, as it was a comment intended to extract what, exactly, Anthony was doing on behalf of the war effort, but Edith merely smiled in that maddening fashion she'd adopted since her marriage and she nodded. She was clearly aware of Mary's fishing expedition but was, as usual, completely immune to it. Mary was torn between admiring her sister's newfound poise and being annoyed by the fact that Edith knew something that she would not share.

Or could not, perhaps. It was obvious how devoted Edith and Anthony were to each other—it was a bit sickening, really, Mary thought sourly; surely she and Matthew were not so obvious in their affection!—and Edith might be guarding some secret on Anthony's behalf, possibly out of fear for his safety.

Mary took another sip of her tepid tea and suppressed a grimace. Matthew didn't have any secrets worth guarding so judiciously. It came as something of an unpleasant shock that Edith's husband should be a man of mystery.

Not that Mary was jealous, of course. She was perfectly happy to let Edith have Anthony all to herself; Matthew was much more...stimulating...than Anthony could probably ever be—Mary smiled into her teacup before setting it down—but it was so _irritating_ that Edith could adopt such an air of superiority without even trying. To be the wife of a man with important secrets, and the first to be expecting a child: even if Edith had never in the past year said anything childish enough for Mary to pounce on, it was what she _didn't_ say that left Mary subtly annoyed. Edith seemed to have matured and Mary was left feeling childish.

And that left Mary even more annoyed, because she could find no explicit fault with Edith, nothing to blame for this discomfort except her own petty insecurities and fears. She could see Matthew's expression now, remonstrating her and then reassuring her, and if she let herself, she could imagine the press of his lips against her forehead as he pulled her close—

"Mary, dear, are you all right?" Isobel asked, and Mary opened her eyes.

She swallowed, but could not bring herself to take another sip of the cooled tea, even if she wished terribly for something to cover her face. So she drew in a deep breath through her nose, concentrated on relaxing the tension threatening to pull down her lips, and tilted her head in an unconcerned fashion as she gave Isobel a smile.

"Oh yes, quite," she said. "I'm just feeling a bit tired." When Isobel seemed to regard this response with interest, Mary quickly looked away. Giving Isobel certain ideas was the last thing Mary wanted, particularly since Matthew's last leave had been only three and a half months earlier, and there was nothing _there_ for Isobel to take interest in. "Would you like some more tea?" Mary asked. "I would."

Barely waiting for Isobel to shake her head, Mary stood up and walked to the sideboard, using the familiar process of pouring herself a fresh cup to regain her composure.

Although she could see that neither Edith nor Isobel was much convinced by her performance, she retook her seat, held her head high, and joined in the exclamations of rapture as everyone admired the fine needlework on the baptismal gown.

* * *

**October 1915**

Isobel stepped carefully down from the car, giving Branson a grateful smile as he held open the door for her. He was such a nice young man, always cheerful at his job.

Cousin Robert stood in the great hall, conversing with Sir Anthony, who was pulling off his scarf and handing his coat and hat to William. Isobel stepped inside, allowing Carson to take her things.

"Edith, dear!" Isobel said, when Edith turned to her with a smile. "You're practically glowing!"

Edith smiled wearily, although her skin did have a healthy glow. "Thank you, Cousin Isobel." She rested a hand on her belly. "I do feel quite thoroughly alive, so much more conscious of life these days." Her smile warmed as she glanced down.

"Is she moving?" Sir Anthony asked in a soft, wondering voice. Isobel watched his face with great joy.

"He is kicking, yes. He's hungry," Edith replied.

"We all are," Cousin Robert said with a smile. "Come through. Carson, would you ask the ladies to join us in the dining room? I know it's not the usual, but Lady Edith should be allowed to rest and walk as little as possible."

"Of course, my lord," Carson said. "I'll inform the kitchen that the first course should be served immediately." He strode off, gesturing to William to give all the coats to Anna, who was discreetly waiting nearby.

"I don't mind walking a bit," Edith said. "Anthony keeps me wrapped in feathers when he's home."

"Good girl," Isobel said to Edith, earning her a smile, while Sir Anthony and Cousin Robert started to usher Edith towards the dining room. William moved ahead of them, quickly opening the dining room door and standing to attention beside it.

"I hope you don't disapprove of my care of my wife," Sir Anthony said, turning his head back to glance at Isobel with a glint of humour in his eyes.

"Not at all, Sir Anthony," Isobel said. "I heartily approve of it. I also happen to approve of expectant mothers getting plenty of exercise if their health allows it. A walk can be most beneficial. I don't put any store by those who would confine a young, healthy woman in a stuffy room, away from the fresh air and sunshine."

Isobel heard familiar muttering behind her and paused, slowly turning. "Yes?" she prompted, raising her eyebrows at Cousin Violet. "I didn't quite catch that."

Violet strode up to her with pursed lips, her cane flicking the floor beside her. "There's no need for the room to be stuffy," she said. "I always insisted on the windows being thrown open."

"Good evening. I take it you disapprove?"

"Good evening. Of course I disapprove. A woman in Edith's condition, traipsing about the countryside? What if she turned her ankle? A turn about the garden should suffice."

They fell into step beside one another, Cousin Cora, Mary, and Sybil trailing behind, as they all moved towards the dining room.

"I wouldn't expect her to be taking long walks, of course," Isobel said. "And certainly never unaccompanied. That would be most unwise."

"I don't understand why everyone suddenly treats a woman as weak when she is expecting," Sybil said. "It takes a great deal of strength to carry and bear a child! I wouldn't let anyone trap _me_ indoors."

"Of course you wouldn't," Mary replied. "If you had your way, you'd probably give birth in a barn."

"That's just vulgar," Violet said. "And you ought not to speak of things you don't understand, Sybil."

"I've read _Every Woman's Encyclopaedia_ , you know. And just because I think women ought to be able to have a voice in determining how they live their own lives doesn't make me a savage."

"I didn't say you were a savage," Mary replied. "Just that if you're outdoors when the baby announces its arrival, a barn might be the nearest shelter."

"I didn't mind being coddled when I was expecting," Cora said, smiling, as they entered the dining room. "I rather liked taking naps in the middle of the day."

"Oh, I _wish!_ " Edith said with a sigh, overhearing their conversation from where she was seated at the table.

"Oh, my dear, how are you?" Cora said, quickly coming to Edith's side and laying a hand on her shoulder. Edith smiled wanly up at her.

"Very well, considering, Mama. It is nice to finally have an excuse to wear this evening gown!"

"It's lovely and so very daring of you, my dear," Cora gushed. "I always just preferred to take a tray when I was at your stage."

Isobel took her usual seat as the rest of the family settled down around the table.

"Oh, I have been," Edith said. "But with Anthony home—" at this, she smiled and rested her hand on his, and he returned her smile, "—I just so wanted to see the family! I've had quite enough of staring at the walls of Locksleigh House!"

"And of course you'll be there for several weeks after the baby comes," Cora said, nodding.

"Exactly. Tonight was the perfect opportunity."

Carson and William appeared, carrying trays, and set them down on the sideboard.

"It is good to have you back," Cousin Robert said to Sir Anthony. "Will you be home long this time?"

Sir Anthony grimaced politely. "I'm afraid not. Only two weeks, and then I must be off again."

"It's as if you wear an invisible uniform, Sir Anthony," Isobel said with a smile. "I'm surprised that your work only grants you brief leaves."

Sir Anthony smiled, exchanging a quick glance with Edith. William bent down beside him with a tray in that moment, and Sir Anthony set his attention to taking a portion of the food. Edith leapt into the opening.

"I think the nursery is finally completed," she said brightly. "I've hung the drapes and we finished the painting only yesterday."

"Oh! What colour did you choose?" Cora asked. "I know you were debating between the yellow and the mauve."

"It was so difficult to decide," Edith said. "I felt that if I chose the wrong colour, and the baby was a boy, it just wouldn't do…"

A tray appeared at Isobel's side and she looked up to see William bending over her with a polite smile. She took a portion of the vegetables. He moved away and when Isobel looked up again, she met Mary's eyes. Edith was still detailing her agonies over the colour choices. Mary widened her eyes purposefully and smirked. Isobel smiled, then quickly hid it.

"I'm just eager to meet them, whoever they are," Sir Anthony was saying, and Edith gave him an adoring look. "The nursery is lovely: you've done so well, my dear. And I'm sure that Maxwell can easily have the colour changed if it doesn't suit."

"I know," Edith said. "I just want it all to be perfect."

"It will be," Sir Anthony replied. "We'll have a child."

Isobel smiled as she watched them. She glanced across at Mary and saw that the young woman was sitting very still, taking a careful sip of her wine. Isobel frowned and looked down at her plate again. Despite Matthew and Mary having been married for well over a year by now, they had spent less than two weeks in each other's company during that time. With so little opportunity, it was too much to hope that Mary might also be so fortunate. Isobel knew well how difficult it could be to conceive a child. She wished to God that the war would end soon, and that Matthew would return home whole and healthy. He and Mary would make lovely parents.

Isobel was surprised by the strength of her desire for grandchildren. She wanted to see Matthew hold his child in his arms; she knew how much he'd wanted a family of his own since his youth. Isobel smiled, remembering his first meeting with Edward. Yes, he would be a lovely father. Her heart ached with the desire to see her vision realised.

"I never thought I might have a child in my old age," Sir Anthony was saying with a smile. "As I'm sure you understand. And you've a son, too!"

"It _is_ such a relief to have a proper heir!" Cousin Robert said brightly. Isobel stiffened. "And now a grandchild!" He glanced around the table, proudly taking in his family. "I have been so blessed: my quiver is full!" He seemed unaware of how still Mary was in her chair. Cousin Robert beamed at Edith, who was glowing at the praise as her mother touched her hand and smiled proudly. Isobel exchanged a quick glance with Violet, who was frowning, and they both looked at Mary, whose expression had become glacial. Isobel looked down at her plate.

"I don't suppose I'll live long enough to see my grandchildren," Sir Anthony said with a grin. "But I'll be happy enough even without that."

"Oh, my dear! You're not old," Edith said to Sir Anthony, smiling patiently at him, with an air of it being a familiar argument between them. "You shouldn't say such things."

He chuckled and gazed at her adoringly. "You keep me young, my darling."

"You know, there's a reason why Brontë and Austen ended their novels before this point," Violet said.

Mary snort-coughed into her napkin. Cousin Robert frowned between them.

"Well, _I_ think it's sweet," Cora said, shooting a look of reproof at Violet.

"Extremely," Violet replied dryly. "Edith, dear, you really are looking very well."

"Thank you, Granny," Edith said.

"Actually, I _am_ rather partial to _Jane Eyre_ ," Sir Anthony said with a smile.

"Really, Sir Anthony? I would have thought _Sense and Sensibility_ more to your liking," Sybil said.

"Oh, that's a fine novel, too," he replied. "But I must confess to enjoying the darker air and the mystery of Mr Rochester's past a great deal more."

The family continued on in this fashion, discussing the merits of various May-December romances, until Cousin Robert pushed back from the table and stood, signalling the end of the meal. He had not been particularly engaged in the discussion, Isobel noted with a smile as she rose. Apparently, romances were not to his taste. She'd never discussed books with him before; she made a note to approach him when the men came through. He had a vast library and was surely a well-read man. She missed reading beside Matthew in the evenings, and the discussions they'd engaged in occasionally about their respective interests. Matthew was not quite as enthusiastic a conversational partner as Reginald had been, but sometimes Isobel had managed to hit upon a topic that Matthew held strong views on and she'd enjoyed taking a contrary view that she did not in fact hold, just to watch him argue his points more forcefully. She understood why he'd chosen not to become a barrister, but she was certain he would have made a fine one if he had.

When she entered the sitting room, she chose a chair near where Mary was settling herself on the sofa. Violet entered the room a few moments later, taking the chair on Isobel's other side.

"Well, that was an invigorating debate," Violet said, adjusting her seat and smoothing out her skirts. "I'm glad my husband was nearer to my own age."

"Reginald was ten years older than me," Isobel said. "It seems an economic necessity for taking a wife, unfortunately."

"Amongst the middle and lower classes, I suppose," Violet observed.

"Yes," Isobel said, choosing not to take offence. Sometimes it seemed a continual battle, however. She repressed a smirk.

"How old is Matthew?" Mary asked.

Isobel turned to her, frowning in thought. "Let's see…he was born in '85, so that would make him…"

"Thirty," Mary said, musing. "Six years older than I am."

"My Edward was four years older," Violet said.

"'Your Edward'?" Mary said with a smile. "Why, Granny, you sound a romantic."

Violet lifted her chin. "It was merely a figure of speech, to distinguish him from your brother."

Mary nodded, still smiling.

"What was he like, the sixth Earl?" Isobel asked.

Belying her words, Violet's expression softened immediately. "He was a great traveller. Certainly more so than myself," she said. She almost smiled. "He quite enjoyed telling stories of his time abroad. I spent many happy evenings without understanding a word."

"If you keep this up, Granny, you'll unseat Edith," Mary observed. Isobel chuckled. Violet merely lifted her chin and looked across to where Cora, Edith, and Sybil sat talking.

"Edith and Anthony are a better match than I had anticipated," Violet said.

"Yes," Isobel said. "They have a similar temperament. Edith seems much more at peace now."

"It's probably due, in no small part, to being free of me," Mary said. Isobel and Violet looked at her sharply. "What?" Mary shrugged. "Tell me it's not true."

"I shan't contradict you," Violet said. "I never approved of the way you two were always at odds."

"I've been happier for it, too, to be honest," Mary said, glancing over at her mother and sisters again. Edith was happily talking while they attended her; she was clearly enjoying being the centre of attention. Isobel watched Mary, taking in the forced smile on her face.

"You'd be very welcome to come live with me, my dear," Isobel said. Mary stilled, then turned in her seat to look at Isobel, her face warming into a polite smile. She glanced at Violet before meeting Isobel's eyes again.

"Thank you, Isobel, that's very kind," Mary said, neither accepting nor rejecting the offer. Isobel could expect no more, she supposed, but she smiled to herself. The seed was planted. Perhaps, if she watered it when the occasion arose...

"Have you decided whether to hire a nurse? Your time is running short," Cora was asking Edith, catching Isobel's interest.

"Yes," Edith said. "I think I will, Mama. I'm afraid that I don't have your interest in nursing, myself."

Cora smiled and started to make another comment, but Isobel's attention was again taken by Violet.

"A Countess, _nursing_ ," the Dowager Countess muttered. "She didn't see the need with the girls. I don't see why she should want to do it now."

"It's the best thing for the child," Isobel said. "And for the mother, as well."

"What's the point in being an aristocrat if one cannot choose how to spend one's time?" Violet asked.

"Some women choose to spend it nursing," Mary said dryly.

"Indeed," Isobel said. "I did. I'll admit it wasn't a bed of roses all the time, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything. That precious time is over so quickly."

Violet shrugged. "Why deprive a woman in the village of the extra income?"

Isobel glanced at her. "If it were necessary, I wouldn't object to it. I just don't like to see the choice made for purely selfish reasons."

"For some," Violet said, "not being chained to one's child for months on end as their sole source of nourishment can make one a _better_ parent."

"That's certainly true," Isobel said with a smile. She noticed that Mary was listening with close interest, so she added: "But if one is uncertain, it is better to make the reversible decision, surely. Choose to nurse the child yourself and if it is not working, bring in outside help. After all, once your milk ends, you cannot bring it back."

Violet nodded. "That's wise enough."

Mary made as if to say something, but cut herself off at Edith's sudden gasp. Edith had sat forward and was clutching her belly, her eyes wide. She drew in another sharp breath and grabbed at Cora's arm.

"Mama—!"

Isobel pushed herself to the edge of her seat, watching Edith with sharp eyes. Cora had half-risen from her seat and was holding on to Edith's arm with her free hand.

"My dear, is it the baby?" Cora asked.

Edith nodded, her face taut with surprise—and some pain, Isobel suspected.

"I don't know how it should feel!" Edith cried. "Is something wrong?"

Mary had leapt to her feet and she came around to crouch in front of Edith, putting her hands on Edith's knees. Sybil already had her arm around Edith's shoulders and her hand over Edith's, where it rested against her swollen belly. Isobel was touched by the sudden warmth of the scene; all previous rivalry seemed momentarily forgotten.

"How does it feel, Edith?" Mary asked, her voice cool and calm. "If you tell us, surely someone—" at this, Mary glanced at Isobel, "—could reassure you."

"After all, you have three experienced women here with you, my dear," Violet said. Her hands tightly gripped the head of her cane, and she'd also sat forward in her chair.

"Your Ladyship—" William said, stepping forward with a hand outstretched, his eyes wide. "Should I send for Major Clarkson?"

"Yes," Cora said. "But first, please fetch Sir Anthony and His Lordship, and then Carson and Mrs Hughes."

"Yes, Your Ladyship," William said, and practically dashed from the room. Edith's eyes followed his movements with wide-eyed panic.

"Edith," Mary repeated, bringing her sister's eyes back to her own. "What do you feel?"

Edith swallowed and frowned. Fixing her eyes on Mary, she relaxed slightly. "It passed. It was tight. Like a cramp, only much worse." She looked down suddenly and shushed her belly. "It's all right, little one."

"Did the baby move?" Isobel asked, rising to her feet.

Edith nodded, her eyes still wide.

"That's a good sign," Isobel said with a smile.

Edith hissed and gasped and her grip on her mother's arm became a claw. Sybil froze beside her and watched her sister struggle through another spasm. When it passed, Edith let out a low groan.

"No more," she moaned quietly.

"I'm afraid this is just the beginning, my dear," Cora said softly.

"They seem to be very frequent for the beginning of this," Violet murmured to Isobel.

Isobel nodded. "Edith, if I may ask…?"

Edith looked up at her, drawing in a long breath through her nose. She let it out with a shudder and nodded. "Please do, Cousin Isobel."

"Is this the first…cramp…you've felt?"

Edith frowned, glancing to the side. "No. I've been feeling them all evening—"

"This has been going on _all evening_ , and you didn't think to _mention_ it?" Violet asked.

Isobel put out her hand and the Dowager Countess subsided.

Edith looked as though she might be about to cry. "Well, last week Major Clarkson said that my body was just practising, you see." She seemed ashamed. "I'd woken Anthony and sent him for the doctor and it was all for nothing. It happened again a few days ago, and again nothing. I didn't want to worry you all…"

"Of course you didn't," Mary said soothingly. Edith looked down at her with wide eyes, then gave her a tentative smile. It twisted into a rictus of pain a moment later and she bent further forward with a groan. Her grip on Cora caused the older woman to wince. Sybil gave a little moan of sympathy and helped to steady Edith on the edge of the sofa.

Isobel drew close to Edith, waiting until the spasm passed. When Edith seemed to be breathing normally again—although small beads of sweat were now visible along her hairline—Isobel knelt down beside Mary.

"Edith, dear," Isobel said in a soft but authoritative voice. "How long have the 'practice cramps' been happening today? Can you estimate the start time for me? An hour ago?"

Edith shook her head, breathing through her mouth. "No," she said. "Five hours at least. It was just before Anthony came back from visiting the farms."

"And these are the first really difficult cramps?" Isobel asked.

Edith nodded, her eyes wide. "They hurt so much…"

Sir Anthony rushed into the room, a breathless William close on his heels. William held the door open for Cousin Robert, who was calling commands over his shoulder as he strode in.

"Right away, my lord," Isobel heard Carson say, and heavy footsteps moved quickly away.

Sir Anthony stood frozen by the sofa. "My darling! Is something wrong?"

"No," Isobel said calmly, rising to her feet. Mary held out a hand to steady her and Isobel squeezed it in gratitude. Isobel gave Edith an encouraging smile before turning to Sir Anthony. "Everything is perfectly normal. Your wife is in labour."

His eyes grew wide and Isobel would have laughed at the shocked expression on his face if the moment were not so serious. "Here?" he asked, then grimaced.

"I'm sorry, Anthony," Edith said quickly. "I know how much you wished for our child to be born at Locksleigh House."

"Never mind that," he said. "I don't know what I was saying. Of course here is perfectly fine!" He took a step towards her, but seemed unsure of what to do with himself, as she was surrounded by so many women. Cousin Robert stepped up and looked at Isobel.

"What should be done?" he asked her.

"She will need a warm, quiet room, plenty of boiled water, towels, and," Isobel glanced at Edith. "More comfortable clothing."

Carson and Mrs Hughes had quietly appeared beside William and were watching the proceedings. Isobel caught Mrs Hughes's eye and the housekeeper nodded.

"All of these things are already being prepared," Mrs Hughes said.

"I've sent Branson to collect Major Clarkson," Carson added.

"Excellent," Isobel said, turning to Edith.

Edith's eyes flickered over her briefly and then she drew in a deep breath, reached out a hand towards Mary—who took it immediately—and pushed herself to her feet with the help of her mother and sisters. Mary rose beside her.

"I think perhaps I should find a bathroom," Edith said, her voice wavering with the effort to sound calm.

Sybil unfroze. "Of course, Edith, dear. Come along with me. We'll just—"

Edith nodded. She looked at Isobel with wide eyes. "Would you wait outside for us?"

"Of course," Isobel answered, smoothly coming to her other side to take her elbow as Cora stepped back. "I'll stay with you for as long as you wish."

Edith gave her a tight, grateful smile and then gasped and stopped walking. She bent into herself with a groan and the men winced as they watched her.

"Out, both of you," Violet said, waving her stick at them. "Go find the brandy. I'll be along shortly."

Cousin Robert nodded and laid a hand on Sir Anthony's arm. "Come, man, let's go be useless together."

Sir Anthony gave him a tight, nervous smile, but turned back to Edith, waiting until she seemed to have recovered herself. "Should I send for any of your things?"

Edith shook her head with a pained smile, breathing heavily. "No, I'm sure Mama has things I can borrow."

"I do," Cora said. "Anthony, Edith will be well taken care of, I assure you."

"Come," Cousin Robert tried again, but Sir Anthony ignored him and stepped up beside Edith. Sybil moved aside for him. He ran his hand over the sweat-dampened strands along Edith's brow and bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"You'll be marvellous," he said. "You can do this."

Edith's eyes filled with tears and she released Isobel and Sybil and threw her arms around his neck. He'd had to bend awkwardly over her belly for her to reach him, but he didn't seem to mind as he held her.

"I wish you could stay with me," she whispered roughly, but as everyone was watching them with rapt attention, her words carried clearly to the whole room.

Sir Anthony was blinking rapidly as she released him and he straightened up. "If you ask for me, I'll come," he said. She nodded.

Isobel glanced at Violet, expecting the Dowager Countess to be looking upon this exchange with disapproval, but the older woman's expression was softened. When she realised Isobel was watching her, she raised her eyebrows in challenge. Isobel smiled.

"Bathroom. Now," Edith commanded, and everyone leapt to attention and made way for her. Isobel smiled and helped Sybil guide Edith out of the room. Edith would do very well, indeed.

* * *

Mary entered the small library where Isobel stood, wrapped in one of Mary's shawls and sipping a mug of coffee as she looked out at the leaves falling on the lawn. It was a beautiful, crisp fall morning and Isobel smiled.

"You did a lovely job in there, my dear," Isobel said as Mary came to stand beside her. "As did Sybil. You both surprised me with your calm demeanour. And Edith did well, very well."

Mary gave a self-deprecating laugh and ran the back of her hand lightly across her forehead. "I didn't _feel_ calm, I assure you. My heart was racing the whole time, as the drama never seemed to let up!"

"You and Sybil would make excellent auxiliary nurses. You might consider it: many young middle- and upper-class women are joining a Voluntary Aid Detachment these days."

Mary shook her head. "It's not for me, but Sybil might be interested. I confess that I'm a bit squeamish about such things. I only got through it this time because I was never given the chance to stop!"

"Mm," Isobel said, finishing another sip of the strong coffee. Thank God for Carson. "Edith waited longer than she ought to have, but I was impressed by her poise. We didn't know what was happening until she was entering her final stages of labour."

"Thank _God_ you were here!" Mary sighed.

Isobel chuckled. "Yes, if only to see the look on Major Clarkson's face when he arrived."

Mary giggled.

"You know, childbirth has been the domain of women far longer than men. Male doctors taking charge is a relatively recent development." Isobel frowned briefly.

"That was your first delivery alone, wasn't it?" Mary asked.

Isobel glanced at her. "Was it so obvious?"

"Not at all," Mary smiled. "You were the picture of calm assurance."

"My heart was racing, too," Isobel confessed, hiding her smile in her mug. She swallowed. "I'm just grateful that Harold's birth was by the book."

"Mm." After a pause, Mary said, "I know I ought to be exhausted—we haven't slept a wink and it's morning already—but I don't feel the least bit tired, just exhilarated! I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry and I've already done both."

Isobel chuckled. "Give it an hour. Then you'll be dead on your feet."

Mary stood beside her in silence for a long moment and then she said, "I think I'd like to move to Crawley House."

Isobel's heart leapt, but she schooled her expression, knowing that her daughter-in-law would be more comfortable with a calm response. Also, Isobel's own weariness was starting to assert itself. She did not think she would make it another hour on her feet. She might have been able to manage it when she was much younger, but her arms and back and legs ached. For all that she felt a glow of relief and achievement, she was tired.

"I would like that very much," she said, and looked at Mary. They exchanged a smile and then Mary bounced her hands once against her thighs.

"Well," she said briskly. "When things settle down, I'll talk to Papa and Carson about making the arrangements."

Isobel glanced at her. "Do you think your parents will mind?"

A fleeting expression crossed Mary's face and then she smiled. "I don't know. But as they cannot stop me—" her smile widened, "—I don't much care _what_ they think of the move."

Isobel nodded and considered what would be required to prepare for Mary's arrival. They stood watching the falling leaves for a short while.

"Will you tell Matthew?" Isobel asked into the silence.

"Of Baby Harold?" Mary asked. "I thought I'd leave the honour of the full story to you; you've earned it, after all. I'll mention his birth, of course."

"No, of your moving to Crawley House."

Mary smiled. "No; I expect he'll notice the change in return address and ask, if he's curious."

Isobel chuckled. "Well played. He'll enjoy that."

"By the way," Mary said. "I've been sent to tell you that Branson can take you home whenever you're ready. He has the car waiting."

"Ah. Excellent," Isobel said, shrugging off the shawl and handing it to Mary. "Thank you for this," she said, gesturing at the garment. "It was just the thing."

"You're welcome," Mary replied with a smile, folding it and draping it carefully over one arm. She stood regarding Isobel a moment as Isobel finished her coffee and then Mary said, "I want to apologise for not making you feel as welcome as I ought to have."

"What do you mean?" Isobel said. "You've made me feel perfectly comfortable here."

"No; at the beginning of our acquaintance," Mary said. "I was barely polite to you, and not even that to Matthew."

"Love can make us do strange things, my dear," Isobel said. "You did well enough under the circumstances."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "And what circumstances were those?"

Isobel chuckled. "Before he met you, he had already dismissed you out of hand. I thought the way you handled him was superb. To my knowledge, I was the only other woman who had ever set him down and as his mother, I decidedly don't count. He was quite sure of himself, you know. Rather exasperating at times. Watching the change in his demeanour when you were around gave me hope."

Mary laughed.

Isobel looked at her. "And the change in yours."

Mary hid a smile by looking down at the shawl on her arm and rearranging its folds unnecessarily. When she looked up again, her smile had faded.

"I cannot wait until December," she said quietly. "It's funny, I feel as if I'm only half myself without him."

Isobel nodded.

"I want to be settled at Crawley House before he arrives," Mary said. "Perhaps in a week or two, I might begin moving my things?"

"You'll need to come by and decide where you wish to put things," Isobel said. "I'm afraid that the house is somewhat smaller than you're accustomed to, and Matthew insisted that I take the master bedroom when we arrived; his has only a single in it."

Mary frowned. "Oh, I hadn't thought to put you out of your bed!"

"Never mind that," Isobel smiled. "I don't need all the space and as I don't plan on taking another husband anytime soon—" they exchanged a mischievous grin, "—you're welcome to it."

"Thank you, Isobel," Mary said, warmth in her expression.

"Now," Isobel said with a nod, "all this talk of beds is making me quite eager to be in my own."

Mary smiled and strode across to the door. She held it open for Isobel to pass through and then followed her out into the great hall. William stood waiting in the foyer and he straightened and gave Isobel a warm smile.

"First-rate job, Mrs Crawley, really first-rate," he said, taking the empty mug from her and setting it down on the side table. Isobel smiled up at him as he held out her coat and helped her into it. "His Lordship was most impressed. All of us downstairs are as well."

"Thank you, William," Isobel said. "I appreciate that very much. I could not have done it without the help of the entire household. You were all the paragon of efficiency and responsiveness."

"That's Mrs Hughes's doing," he smiled. "She had us all hopping to, sometimes even before you'd asked."

Isobel smiled as she donned her hat and gloves, and she made a mental note to find some way of thanking the housekeeper. Before this, they'd not had much opportunity to interact, but Isobel now held Mrs Hughes in far greater respect. The woman would likely brush her off by saying that she was merely doing her job, but between the two of them—and Sybil and Cora and Mary, of course—they had ensured that Edith had as safe and comfortable a birthing as possible, to rival even the care available at the hospital.

"Until later, then," Mary said, and Isobel nodded, gave her a warm smile, and went outside.

Isobel exchanged another smile with Branson as she stepped up into the car.

"A marvellous job, Mrs Crawley," he said.

"So I've heard," she replied dryly, drawing another grin from him. "It's really Edith who ought to be congratulated."

"I'll do that, then," he said. "When I next have the opportunity. Let's get you home." He pushed the door closed and climbed into the front seat.

"Oh, that would be lovely," she sighed, settling back against the seat. She smiled, thinking of the tiny bundle in Edith's arms. There was _so much_ to tell Matthew!

* * *

Mary went upstairs, lost in thought. There was a great deal to consider with this move. It was not merely a transition from a grand house to a humble one, nor even merely the first step in acknowledging that her place was no longer at Downton. For the whole of her life, her notion of who she was had depended upon her place as her father's daughter. Even her name. For the rest of her life, no matter how far from Downton she might travel, those outside her family would continue to address her as "Lady Mary". It wasn't that she had any great desire to escape her position, but she did wonder from time to time who she might be if she were not the daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Before Edward's arrival, those wonderings had been idle and of no account, but now…

Mary pushed open the door to her bedroom and found Anna inside, turning down the covers.

"Good morning, my lady," Anna said with a wide smile. "Congratulations."

"Oh, don't congratulate me, congratulate Edith, surely," Mary said, pulling at her hairpins as she crossed the room. Isobel had been right: the night's lack of sleep was starting to pile weight on her quickly.

Anna finished plumping the pillow and then crossed to Mary, taking her hairpins and shoes and everything else in quick succession. Mary yawned.

"When will you sleep?" she asked Anna.

"When you do," Anna said. "Mr Carson has given most of the household the morning off—at least those of us who were helping with Lady Edith last night."

Mary shrugged her nightgown over her head and straightened it. "You must tell him to sleep too, and Mrs Hughes." She smirked. "Tell them the order comes from Lord Grantham himself."

Anna quirked a sceptical smile at her as she gathered Mary's discarded clothing and draped it over her arm. "Did it?"

"If not, it should have," Mary said firmly. "And if anyone asks you about it, send them to me. I'm quite sure I distinctly heard him say something exactly like that."

Anna chuckled. "I'll pass on the message."

"See that you do."

Mary headed towards the bed, eager to climb under the down comforter and fall fast asleep.

"I've left a tray of biscuits and milk for you," Anna said, gesturing at the items as Mary pulled the covers over herself.

"Bless you," Mary exhaled. "I don't know how I would manage without you."

"Oh, you'd find another lady's maid soon enough," Anna assured her, smoothing the blankets at the foot of the bed and crossing to the door. Mary raised her head with a frown.

"Anna."

"Yes, my lady?"

"I hope you don't believe that I could ever replace you so easily."

Anna paused, her hand on the doorknob, and smiled. "You're kind to say it, but you don't have a choice, do you?"

Mary sat up. "Are you leaving me?"

Anna turned quickly towards her. "No! Of course not. I was only trying to assure you that you needn't feel any loyalty towards me. I'm just a maid."

Mary frowned, then pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed as Anna watched her with wide eyes.

"I know my father pays you," Mary said. "And I know that if our family were ever unable to continue doing so…you would have to leave. But I hope you know that I value you a great deal." Mary swallowed. "A very great deal."

Anna blinked several times and pressed her smiling, trembling lips together. After a moment, she said, "I know, my lady."

Mary nodded and started to turn away, but then paused and quickly turned back, again stopping Anna from twisting the doorknob.

"Anna…I have not spoken to His Lordship yet, but—" Mary frowned, realising that what she had said to Isobel was true: she did not require her father's approval to move out. She was under Matthew's protection now, and she knew that he had wished for her to move to Crawley House, although he'd tried to hide his disappointment when she'd dismissed the idea. She smiled. How pleased he would be when he came home!

If he came home—

"My lady?" Anna's voice recalled Mary from her thoughts and Mary quickly smiled at her.

"Yes, Anna, I'm sorry. You must be tired and I'm keeping you from your bed."

Anna was looking at her with concern. "Take no mind of that, my lady. Has something happened?" When Mary glanced at her in confusion, Anna lowered her voice and said, "To Mr Matthew, I mean?"

"What? No. At least, not that I've heard. Have you heard something—?"

Anna put a hand on Mary's arm. "Shh, no, of course not. It was just what you said about speaking to His Lordship and then your face just now…"

Mary shook her head, smiling again. "I'm sorry. I'm making a right scramble of things." She pressed a hand briefly to her temple and chuckled. "I'm just tired. No, what I meant to ask you is: if I move to Crawley House, would you be willing to come with me?"

Anna's eyes widened. "To Crawley House, my lady?"

"I know it wouldn't be as grand a position," Mary said quickly. "You wouldn't be working for the Earl of Grantham any longer, just for me and Mr Matthew." Mary frowned. "I'm not sure how the arrangements would work. I know there's already a maid at Crawley House and I'm not sure I would need the full-time services of a lady's maid if I'm not dressing for dinner each night. But even if your responsibilities changed, I wouldn't allow your pay to be docked."

Anna was regarding her seriously. "Are you quite sure you'll be able to afford me?"

Mary opened her mouth to speak and then frowned, suddenly aware that she had no idea what yearly salary Anna commanded, and if her own settlement might be sufficient for paying a lady's maid indefinitely. Could Matthew's salary support one, in addition to a cook, a valet, a housemaid, _and_ a nanny, when that day came? Would Mary need to pare down her expectations? She frowned.

She was roused from her thoughts by a sudden giggle.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I couldn't resist—your face—" Anna said, covering her mouth with her hand and giggling again before dropping it. Mary shot her a chagrined look but chuckled. "Of course you'll be able to afford my salary. And if for any reason you can't, I'd still think twice about leaving you for so-called 'greener' pastures. I very much enjoy working for you."

Mary's eyes widened and now it was her turn to blink several times as her heart lifted. "You do?"

"Yes," Anna said, putting her hand back on the doorknob a third time. "We'll talk about this later, after you're properly rested and you've had a chance to discuss it with His Lordship."

"Yes, Miss Smith," Mary teased with a grin and Anna smiled.

They regarded one another happily for a moment and then Anna pulled the door open and stepped out.

Mary smiled as she moved back towards her bed and climbed under the covers. With Anna to help her, Mary was certain that she could make the transition. She still had a great deal to learn and she found that the prospect of learning it was rather exciting. Beyond getting herself settled, she would become the lady of the house, with all the necessary concerns that that entailed. Although she had no wish to displace Isobel, what might be expected of her at Crawley House? And she must find out what would make Matthew happy—his favourite foods, his habits, his pet peeves—and set about making his next leave as pleasant as possible. Between Anna and Isobel, she could do this. She could be a proper wife. And more than that, she could spread her wings and wander out into the world. She could be more than just Lady Mary.

Her eyes drifted closed as she smiled to herself.


	17. Chapter 17

_17_

**December 1915**

Matthew adjusted his bag in one hand and straightened, frowning at the young soldier who'd just jostled him. Then his mood lightened when he saw the lad push through the crowd and warmly embrace a young woman. Matthew shook his head and smiled to himself as he moved further along the train platform with the flow of disembarking soldiers.

The vast expanse of Waterloo Station was flooded with soldiers, both those on leave, like himself, and those heading out to Southampton and then the ferry across to France. Unlike himself, most of them seemed to know exactly where they were going. He looked up with a frown, searching for a familiar sign or a map of some kind. His last time through this station, he'd managed to quickly board a nearby train to Yorkshire, but this time he had business in London before he could go home. He needed to make his way out to the street.

He found his way to the terminal and eased out of the flow of people, pausing along the far wall to get his bearings. There were three young women standing near him, speaking to the passing soldiers and attracting some interest. Matthew was about to move on to a quieter spot when the nearest woman noticed him and smiled.

Her smile broke across her face, warm and full of life, and it stopped him with unexpected force. Her eyes were green and sparkling with humour and she was lit by an overhead shaft of sunlight. Her clear skin and red hair seemed to glow with an ethereal life all their own. Her hat and scarf and coat, although simple, were a complementary shade of green; the overall effect was a vision that took his breath away. He hadn't seen anything so beautiful in months. Her lips—so soft and full and pink—he stared. He found himself imagining what kissing them would feel like and his body responded instantly.

"The Germans haven't taken your tongue, I trust?" she said, still smiling.

"What?"

"I said 'hello' a moment ago, but you didn't respond," she answered.

He blinked, swallowed, and licked his lips. "Oh. Terribly sorry. My mind was elsewhere."

"I could tell," she said, her eyes sparkling. She glanced up at his cap. "You're an officer?"

"Lieutenant Crawley," he said automatically.

"Well, Lieutenant Crawley, do you like dancing?"

He blinked in surprise, then smiled.  _Dancing._  "Very much."

"Excellent!" she said, stepping closer to him. Some part of him thought  _she's very bold_  and another part of him warmed at her approach. "Then you'll enjoy the ball!"

"The ball?" He frowned, feeling lost, and wondered what this young woman must think of him.

"We're hosting a benefit for Lady Northcliffe's Hospital," she said brightly, gesturing, and he realised that she was holding out a handbill to him.

"Oh. Of course," he said, and took it. She wasn't interested in him. Why would she be? And why did he even care? He was tired and unwashed and hungry and eager to be home.

_Home. Dancing...Mary._

A vision of his lovely wife, naked and moaning beneath him, suddenly filled his mind and body and he closed his eyes, the rush of awakening sensations finally making sense again. God, it had been too long. He smiled and opened his eyes.

"So you'll come?" the pretty young woman asked.

He looked down at the handbill and saw that the benefit concert she was advertising was to take place that evening.

"I'm sorry—" he began.

"Please say you will!" she gestured at the two other women behind her. "My friends and I, our job is to invite the officers, you see. We'd like to support our fighting men and welcome you home, and we're hoping to have as many officers as possible attend the ball. It helps to raise money for the hospital, if people know you'll be there. You're quite the draw, you know." She was rushing through her words and she coloured at this slip. "—Or, rather, you  _officers_  are quite the draw."

She gave him another blushing smile and he liked her openness, but he had absolutely no desire to attend her ball.

"What you and your friends are doing is very noble," he said, "and I applaud you. But you must excuse me. I won't be staying in London. I'm for home as soon as my business here is done." He frowned, put her handbill under one arm, and rummaged in his pocket. "Actually, perhaps you could help me." He dug the dog-eared note out and frowned at it. "I need to get to Chancery Lane…" He looked up again, trying to find signs that he recognised.

"You could take a taxi," she said. "But where's the fun in that?"

He glanced back at her with a smile. "That is rather boring, I agree. What would you recommend?"

"Have you considered the Drain?"

He pictured a flush toilet and frowned. She laughed and came to stand beside him, pointing over the heads of the crowd moving past. "You'll want to board the Waterloo & City Line," she said. "The Drain. It's not often travelled; the crowds should be quieter down there. It runs under the Thames."

His interest was piqued. "Take the Underground… _under_  the river?"

"Yes!" she said. "It's ever so much fun! And then you'll come out at Bank. You should switch to—" she put her finger against her pretty mouth a moment, and then she smiled. "It's only a couple stops down the Twopenny Tube, of course."

"What is?" he asked, enchanted by her smile and amused by her enthusiasm for the transit system.

"Chancery Lane!" she said. "It's quite close."

"Do you do this often?" he asked, smiling.

"Give travellers directions? Of course! It's why I volunteered for Waterloo Station. Some of the girls say it's noisy and smelly, but I love the sense of movement and the way everything seems to come through here one way or another. And I love knowing how to get about the city: popping underground and then popping out somewhere else,  _precisely_  where you want to be? I could spend the whole day just on the Tube!"

He chuckled.

She blushed—it was very becoming against her pale skin—and he looked up.

"Well, I must be off. The Waterloo & City Line, you say?"

Although there was a look of disappointment in her eyes, she smiled. "Yes. And then the Central London Railway." She gestured with a tilt of her head. "It's just that way."

He nodded and took a step.

"It was nice to meet you, Lieutenant Crawley," she said, her smile now shy. She was such a beauty…and had he been another man from another life, he might have gone to that ball. But he had a beauty at home, and one he was most eager to return to.

"Likewise, Miss—" he said.

"Miss Swire," she answered.

"Miss Swire." He tipped his hat. "Thank you for your help."

She smiled after him, the sheaf of handbills held loosely in her hands, and he waded back into the press of foot traffic, looking for the Waterloo & City Line, and—there. Then Bank. Then Chancery Lane. He stuffed the handbill into his pocket and the dog-eared note down beside it. Now to find Robert and then  _home_.

* * *

Matthew emerged from the Chancery Lane tube station and squinted up at the bright sunlight with a smile. That  _had_  been fun, even if it had made him a bit tense to be so far underground. And the thought of all that water overhead!

A glance at his pocket-watch made him grimace; he would be late if he didn't hurry. He would have liked to arrive an hour earlier, to find the office and perhaps a bite to eat before the appointment, but the train from Southampton had encountered delays and here he was.

Ah well, there was nothing for it. He replaced the pocket-watch and his stomach growled as he dug out the dog-eared note again and frowned down at it before striking off down the pavement. To his relief, he found the Law Offices of Murray, Frobisher, and Curran only a few minutes later, and he climbed the steps quickly.

A middle-aged woman answered his knock and ushered him inside. "Lieutenant Crawley?"

"Yes."

"I'm Mrs Winstead, secretary to Mr Murray. You're expected. Come this way, please: Lord Grantham is in with Mr Murray now."

Matthew removed his cap and glanced about the place as he followed Mrs Winstead. The rich furnishings and muted decor—with portraits of previous partners adorning the walls—indicated that this was one of the older firms on Chancery Lane. He even thought he recognised the names of one or two of the previous partners from his studies at Oxford. The faint scents of leather and cigar smoke and dark wood, of distinguished age, met his nostrils. Murray, Frobisher, and Curran was obviously a far more prestigious firm than anywhere that he had ever worked.

Mrs Winstead pushed open a door to a room with a desk, three leather-backed chairs, and several cabinets in it, obviously the foyer for Murray's office; her working area. Matthew swallowed. A room this large and well-furnished would have been a lawyer's office at most law firms he was familiar with. The fact that it was merely a secretary's post was startling.

Despite the size and the furnishings, however, it had a utilitarian air. He wouldn't call the place ostentatious, even with the likely clientele or the location. Murray was a solicitor, just like himself, and he had seemed a fine man when he'd first approached Matthew to inquire after his parentage and inform him of the possibility of Lord Grantham's impending interest.

Matthew's stomach growled again and he gave Mrs Winstead a tight smile of apology. He was hungry and tired and, to be honest, already impatient to be done with this meeting.

"You can leave your things here, if you like," she said, pointing at the coat tree. He found an unobtrusive spot nearby and set down his bag with a grateful nod to her.

She went over to a cabinet behind the desk and drew out a sheaf of papers. Walking past him, she knocked on the richly-paneled oak door that presumably led to Murray's office and then pushed in without waiting for a response. Matthew hung up his cap and pulled off his gloves.

"I'd like it done as soon as possible," Robert's voice floated out from the open door.

Someone cleared their throat.

"I'm not sure that's a wise course to pursue, Lord Grantham." Murray's voice was careful, controlled. Matthew smiled. He'd heard Jarvis use the same tone with Robert. Matthew began unbuttoning his coat.

"The Grand Trunk is the main railway in British North America!" Robert said, clearly excited. "Lord Wiltshire and Stoke are saying that everyone is getting into rail shares. The war is prompting a huge expansion of railways everywhere and we are sure to make a fortune. The Stratfords were raving about the returns that Hays was getting for them with the rail lines that he established from Chicago to Portland, and they've got plans for a transcontinental expansion! Now is the time to buy in."

"Yes?" Murray asked.

"The Trust and the Power of Attorney, in triplicate," Mrs Winstead replied.

"Thank you."

Matthew hung his coat and tugged at his uniform as he turned towards the open door.

"Lieutenant Crawley has arrived, sir," Mrs Winstead said.

"Excellent," Murray answered. "Show him in."

Mrs Winstead came back into view and raised an eyebrow in Matthew's direction, so he walked into the room. The office was surprisingly sparse; Matthew had been expecting further displays of opulence, but Murray seemed to prefer a simpler working environment. Matthew smiled in approval as he took his seat.

"So you'll see that it's done? Is there anything I need to sign?" Robert was asking.

"I'm not objecting to the Grand Trunk Railway specifically, Lord Grantham," Murray said. "I'm objecting to your stated desire to invest  _all_  of the Estate's liquid assets in a single enterprise."

Matthew frowned at this.

"I've no head for all of this Murray, you know that. I don't want the Estate's resources broken up into a thousand little pieces, with each of them reporting their dividends individually so I can't make sense of it. Stoke says that it's such a headache managing all of that. He went all in on a single railway company. It's much simpler with that, and he's got a controlling share, which will likely come in very handy after this unfortunate conflict ends."

"We would manage all of those details for you, of course, Lord Grantham," Murray said, the patience in his voice wearing thin.

"Why cause someone the trouble of collating it all?" Robert asked, glancing at Mrs Winstead with a brief smile. "Just buy shares in the Canadian Grand Trunk and be done with it."

Murray regarded Robert for a long moment, the lawyer's lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he said, "Very well, Lord Grantham. Our firm will do as you request. But I must make it clear that it is over our strong objections."

"Why? I'm just doing what you've been urging me to do for years now."

"We have never urged you to invest the bulk of your monies in this way, Lord Grantham. Rather, we have repeatedly suggested that you consider restructuring the management of the Grantham Estate."

Robert waved his hand. "There's no need for such draconian measures," he said. "Too many people are dependent on our current way of doing things. Besides, I cannot justify causing more upheaval at home right now when so many of our boys are at the front." He glanced at Matthew with a warm smile, but Matthew's smile in return was only half-hearted. Had he really heard what he thought he'd heard?

"Now about the Trust…" Robert prompted.

Murray nodded and reached for the sheaf of papers that Mrs Winstead had given him. Glancing through them, he passed out copies to Robert and Matthew and kept one for himself. He proceeded to explain the basic terms; Matthew nodded and skimmed the documents as Murray spoke, confirming that the arrangements were as expected, given the letters that he and Robert had exchanged.

"As you'll note, I've reduced my own trusteeship to be contingent upon Lieutenant Crawley's incapacitation or death," Murray said. "In light of your recent requests, Lord Grantham, I've also taken the liberty of adding a somewhat unusual clause to the agreement. Normally property held in trust is merely to be maintained until such time as the heir reaches his majority, but as the worst-case scenario would be devastating to the future of the Estate, I believe that it would be wise to allow Lieutenant Crawley somewhat more latitude in managing its resources, should he find himself in a position of extreme difficulty."

Robert shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You make it sound downright apocalyptic!"

"Perhaps, but we should plan for every eventuality," Matthew said carefully, glancing at Murray in understanding.

"Well, if you agree that it's necessary, I'll not object," Robert said, frowning. Then he shrugged and smiled. "Let's hope it never comes to that!"

There was a round of agreement and Mrs Winstead appeared with pens, then whisked away the copies of the Trust document once the men had signed them. Murray pushed the second set of much smaller documents across to them.

"This is the Power of Attorney assigned to Lieutenant Crawley, which would only be in effect should you be incapacitated in some way that prevents your involvement in the management of the Estate. It would not cover your merely being away—say, in active service—as you specified," Murray said.

"Excellent," Robert said.

A few minutes later, Matthew and Robert emerged on to the steps outside the law firm, manila envelopes in hand.

"Well, I'm glad that's done with," Robert said with a smile, but he glanced nervously at the sky as he stepped out.

Matthew frowned and followed his gaze. "Is something the matter?"

Robert shook himself and smiled again, although it seemed rather thin. "I can't shake the fear that if I look up, the Huns will be hovering overhead."

Matthew nodded and squinted up again. The skies were clear.

"The last raid was only a few weeks ago, yes?" he asked.

"The thirteenth of October," Robert said heavily.

Matthew frowned. "It's difficult to contemplate London being hit. What's the point of the front if we can't keep the enemy engaged away from home?" He sighed, scanning the street but not seeing it. "Sometimes the whole thing feels like a damned waste of time."

"It's war," Robert said with a frown. He dug out his pocket-watch and looked at it. "I was hoping to catch the four o'clock at the latest."

"I'm sorry about the late hour," Matthew said. "I caught the first train I could from Southampton."

Robert shook his head dismissively. "No matter. Do you have any other business in town?" He stepped on to the pavement and raised his hand. A waiting taxi moved up beside them.

"Not really, although I'd rather hoped to find a sandwich before boarding another train," Matthew said, and made a chagrined face when his stomach growled again.

Robert smiled, pulling open the taxi door. "Yes. You've been travelling for what, two days now?"

"Nearly," Matthew said and climbed in, dragging his bag through. He spent a few moments tucking his manila envelope into it as Robert settled down beside him.

"King's Cross," Robert told the driver.

"So, how is everyone?" Matthew asked as the taxi pulled out into traffic.

Robert sighed. "I had to put Pharaoh down two weeks ago."

"Oh! I'm sorry to hear it. I hadn't thought he was that old."

"He wasn't," Robert grimaced. "But he hadn't been himself for a week or two, really. Then he went missing for a day and a night. He came up to the house, his back legs stiff and dragging behind him, with the most terrible whine. He was clearly in agony. It was rabies. Barnard thinks he might have been bitten by a fox that Anthony's men took down a day or two later."

Matthew frowned and looked away. "How awful."

"Yes." Robert cleared his throat. After a moment of silence, he glanced at Matthew. "I suppose you know that Mary has moved out."

"I gathered as much," Matthew said. "When, exactly, did that happen, by the way? I must confess, I was a bit slow on the uptake and I haven't had a chance to go through my stack of post to figure it out."

Robert frowned. "The twelfth of November. What do you mean by 'slow on the uptake'? I'd assumed that Mary had told you, or I would have done it straightaway."

"She did tell me, after a fashion. I just didn't note the change in return address at first because I recognised the hand and was far more eager to open the letters than to inspect them."

Robert chuckled and shook his head.

"How are Edith and Baby Harold?"

"Oh, fine, fine," Robert beamed. "He can scream like a banshee; there's no problem with the lungs on that one."

"Grandad," Matthew teased.

"And the father of a toddler at the same time," Robert said, shaking his head again. "Who would have thought it possible?"

"It's not  _quite_  an act of God, Robert," Matthew said, smirking.

"It feels it, though, sometimes," Robert mused. "To have my family flowering in the midst of war…" He smiled, but there was a seriousness behind his eyes.

Matthew nodded. "Every moment is a gift."

"Exactly."

* * *

"You really were exceptional!" Robert said to Isobel. He glanced at Matthew with a smile. "I'm not at all sure who it would have fallen to if she weren't there."

"Mrs Hughes, I imagine," Isobel replied. "She really is extraordinary, you know."

"We are very blessed to have her with us," Cora said. "But she doesn't have your expertise."

"A healthy grandson," Robert said proudly, and watched Edward walk past, intent on his mission, whatever it was. "And a healthy son! I'm so grateful. God has blessed us indeed."

Matthew smiled at the attention his mother was receiving. His father would have been so proud of her. The letters that he'd received from her, Mary, and Robert had together painted a rather impressive picture of his mother taking charge on the night that Edith gave birth to Harold, and guiding mother and child through it with apparent ease. Major Clarkson had been performing an emergency appendectomy and hadn't been able to get away when he'd received the summons. It had been fortuitous indeed that Isobel was nearby when Edith's time came.

Matthew felt something hard knock gently against his knee and he looked down with a smile. He accepted the gilded egg from Edward, receiving a minimally-toothed smile in return, and then he searched for a place to set it down as Edward wandered off to fetch his next gift. There was no room left to either side of Matthew on the armchair, as his lap was already full of all the other knickknacks, books, and toys that Edward had brought him. Mary, sitting on the end of the settee beside Matthew's armchair, chuckled and took pity on him, holding out her hand.

"Here," she murmured.

He shot her a grateful, amused look as he gave her the egg. "Thank you."

Robert, Cora, Violet, and his mother turned to discussing the latest Christmas preparations in the village and the hospital. The children's chorus was to serenade the churchgoers that morning and then proceed on to the soldiers in the various wards, but his mother was concerned about the crowd of accompanying family members. Violet was certain that the annual tradition could be appropriately adapted to accommodate everyone, even with the wartime increases in the hospital's population.

Sybil leaned towards him, letting the conversation flow on past her.

"I think he likes you," she said, grinning, as they watched Edward scour the room for his next prize.

"I gathered," Matthew said. "Does he do this often?"

"He's done it a few times to Papa, but he stopped that recently. Once to Cousin Isobel. I think he tried once with Granny, but quickly changed his mind."

Matthew chuckled, glancing at the subject of their conversation. Cousin Violet looked unimpressed with the description of the hospital's holiday preparations.

"And me," Sybil added. "But I think he sees enough of me that I'm not a novelty."

Matthew glanced at Mary. "And you?"

She shrugged. "I think I may have inherited Granny's aura of repulsion," she said with a smirk.

Edward toddled over and held out a small piece of bark that must have fallen outside the fireplace. His fingers were dark with soot and there was a smudge on his cheek. Matthew leaned forward, the collection of objects clinking and shifting around him, and he accepted it with the same seriousness as it was offered. Edward lit up and clapped.

"Go! Pap!" he exclaimed.

"What's he saying?" Matthew asked.

"I think he wants you to give it to Papa," Sybil said, and then looked past him. "I've been meaning to ask you, Mary, what did you think of Gimbel's latest? I thought some of the new collars very practical."

Matthew was holding the sooty piece of bark out, wondering what he actually ought to do with it, when Carson appeared in the sitting room.

"Dinner is served, my lord," he said.

At this, Norris, who had been standing quietly to the side, slipped seamlessly into the space between the rising family members and scooped Edward up, cooing to him. She turned to Matthew, who was gingerly making his way out from under the pile of knickknacks, the piece of bark still held in one hand.

"Lieutenant Crawley, sir," Norris said.

Matthew looked up in surprise. "Yes?"

"I can take that for you," she said, holding out her hand. At his frown, she nodded at his hand. "The bit of wood, I mean, sir."

"Ah!" he smiled, relieved, and handed it over. He wiped his fingers surreptitiously on his trousers as he stood, thankful that the fabric was black already, and then crouched down to begin collecting the items that had fallen off his lap on to the floor. Most of the family were leaving the room, chatting.

"I'll get those, sir, you can just go through with the others," Norris said, setting Edward down again. Edward promptly picked up a stuffed rabbit and hit Matthew with it. "Oh—" Norris said, and gently extracted the toy from Edward's fingers.

Matthew chuckled and straightened up. "If you're quite sure."

"I am, sir."

"I'm sorry to leave you with such a mess," Matthew said, tugging at his waistcoat and scarlet jacket.

"Oh, never mind that, Matthew," Cora said, smiling. "He does this every evening." She came over and patted Edward's head. "Good night, my sweet boy," she cooed.

"He's for bed now?" Matthew asked, and crouched down again. "Good night, little chap." Edward smiled and said something unintelligible and Matthew nodded. "Excellent. As you say," and he grinned back and stood.

He tugged at his clothing as he followed Cora from the room. "He's growing quickly. A year old!"

Cora nodded, a small smile on her face. "He's less a baby now," she said. "Sometimes I miss the early days, but really I'm glad they're behind us."

Matthew smiled. "I must say, you've handled his arrival with a great deal of grace. I'm not sure I would be so accepting of the change in situation if I were in your position."

"Oh, I wouldn't be certain of that, Matthew. You did take rather well to coming here, you know."

"I freely admit to Mary's playing a part in that," he said dryly.

Cora chuckled. "Yes, well, I warn you that the self-sacrifice required for a successful marriage is only a small taste of that which is required for parenthood. I was quite overwhelmed when Mary was born!"

Matthew hummed thoughtfully.

"You'll have one of your own soon enough," she said. "Then you'll understand."

"I look forward to it," he replied with a smile as they entered the dining room.

* * *

"How is your father?" Matthew asked, as Molesley lifted the mess jacket off his shoulders.

Molesley smiled. "Oh, much better sir, thank you for asking. The last time I stopped by and tried to make him a bite to eat, he practically tossed me out of the house."

Matthew grinned. "So, back to his old self, then?"

"Yes. Either that, or he's had quite enough of my cooking," Molesley said, going to hang the jacket in the wardrobe. Matthew chuckled. Molesley came back and waited patiently as Matthew tugged at his tie and collar, then undid his cuffs.

"And how have you been?"

"Oh, very good, sir. No complaints."

"I'm glad to hear it. But if you do have any, feel free to speak up."

Molesley smiled again. He took Matthew's discarded clothing and turned his back to lay them out before seeing to the mess jacket's final brushing.

"And how has Lady Mary been settling in?" Matthew asked.

"Well. It's been an adjustment, of course," Molesley said. "Although Beth was beside herself with delight. She'd never thought to apply to the big house."

Matthew smiled as he finished undressing and began to pull on his pyjama trousers. "Why not? She's done a fine job here, hasn't she?"

"Oh, yes, a very fine job," Molesley said, finally turning back around. "But she'd never aspired to being a housemaid for Lady Grantham. Your mother and I made sure to give Mrs Hughes excellent recommendations for her."

"I'm glad to hear it. And Anna?" Matthew asked as he buttoned his pyjama shirt.

Molesley smiled more widely as he moved around the room, gathering up the clothing and arranging the remaining items from Matthew's valise on the washbasin table. "Miss Smith is a wonderful addition to the household."

"'Wonderful', eh?" Matthew asked, shooting Molesley a conspiratorial look. Molesley's face fell and he turned away.

Matthew frowned. "I'm sorry, Molesley, that was inappropriate of me."

"Oh, I'm not offended, sir," Molesley said, laying out the last of the items for Matthew's nightly toilet and standing back. "I'm glad that you take an interest."

"Of course," Matthew said, still frowning as he took in Molesley's downcast expression, despite the valet's obvious attempt to smile and carry on. "If you don't mind my asking, then, what is it, man?"

Molesley shrugged and draped the clothing over his arm, tucking things in securely. Matthew waited, watching him. Molesley finally looked up. "Mr Bates has been about the place since she's come," he said. At Matthew's sudden frown, Molesley put up his free hand. "Don't take my meaning wrongly, sir," he said. "He hasn't done anything incorrect. I have a great deal of respect for Mr Bates. As a man, I mean, not only in a professional sense. He's always been very kind to me." He glanced to the side. "That's something I very much appreciate." He looked quickly at Matthew. "As you have, sir. I—" Molesley paused, swallowed. "I'm glad you're home, sir."

"I'm glad I am, too, Molesley," Matthew said, smiling again. "I can't tell you how much peace of mind your presence here gives me. To know that someone is looking after Mother. I hope you know I think of you as far more than a servant."

Molesley met his eyes. "I know, sir," he said quietly. Then he straightened, checked the clothing on his arm, and gave the room a quick glance. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, Molesley, thank you. Good night," Matthew smiled.

"Good night, sir."

Matthew turned to the washbasin as Molesley pulled the door closed behind himself. Matthew looked at himself in the mirror. Even having a washbasin and a mirror was a luxury. He sighed and closed his eyes. Robert was making unwise decisions about the future of the Estate and seemed unaware of or uninterested in the potentially-devastating consequences. Downton hadn't been granted to him by God's decree: he had to manage it wisely or else it would be gone long before Edward could inherit. Leaving his son under a mountain of debt and forcing him to sell up would be a terrible loss for the family and the entire community. Matthew was shaken by this unexpected window into Robert's poor judgement. Before today, Matthew had had no reason to suspect that anything was amiss in the management of the Estate. Now, though, a long series of small moments in conversation with Robert, or when observing him interacting with his tenants—some of whom had appeared to be in arrears, how serious was that, really?—began to form a disturbing picture in Matthew's mind.

And that wasn't the only change. Mary had moved out of her parents' home without warning and, Matthew suspected, not on the best of terms with them. Despite her promises to be honest with him, and to share some of her complaints with him—which she'd done, albeit with obvious reluctance—she'd hidden this important decision. Mother had made an off-handed comment or two that had puzzled him at the time, but he'd explained it to himself as Mary merely spending more time at Crawley House. Now he saw that Mother had been assuming that Mary had told him of her move. Why hadn't she told him?

In the early days of their acquaintance, Mary's air of mystery had been part of her allure and to some degree it still was, but right now it was just wearying. He didn't have it within him to play mental games with her. Not after—

He dragged his mind back to the present.  _Focus on Downton, on the family. This is where you are right now._

But it was difficult to block out the images from...over there. He thought he'd grown accustomed to the horror of seeing men fall before his advance. It had happened often enough. But to clearly see the face of the man he'd been aiming at actually  _blown apart_  in front of him—

A soft click sounded behind him and he heard Mary's padded footsteps cross his dressing room. He kept his eyes closed until he felt her arms come around his middle. She pressed her cheek to his back.

"I heard Molesley's footsteps on the stairs," she said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Matthew said, briefly covering her arms with one of his own. Then he reached for his toothbrush and tooth powder. "Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing with the items.

"Not at all," Mary said, a smile in her voice. "I didn't want to wait another minute. It's been far too long."

Matthew closed his eyes with a sigh, pausing. "Far too long."

He set down the items he'd picked up and turned in her arms, taking her face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs across her cheeks. He and Mary sank into a soft kiss, both sighing with pleasure. She tasted faintly of toothpaste and he smiled as he felt her moving against him. He quickly brought his hands down her back to draw her closer with a firm, possessive grip, revelling in the softness of her body. She pulled back as the kiss ended, a slightly drugged look in her eyes, and he grinned. She gave him a small smile before drawing away.

"You can kiss me, but that's it, darling," she said, regret clear in her eyes before she looked down. He frowned. It was his first night home in more than seven months.

"What's wrong? Haven't you missed me?" he asked, suddenly worried.

She placed her hand on his chest, her cool fingertips stroking the skin at the neck of his shirt. He captured her hand gently, looking at her until she raised her eyes to his.

"Desperately," she said, her eyes pleading. She swallowed. "It's just that…I have…my monthly."

He stared at her a moment, trying to make sense of her words, and then his eyes widened. They'd never discussed this before; he'd never given the idea a thought since his father had sat him down as a young man and explained the realities of life in rather excruciating medical detail.

"You do?" he repeated.

Mary smiled. "It's not a death sentence," she said. "You needn't look so shocked."

Of course there was no need for that; to her, this was a  _monthly_  occurrence. He swallowed and unfroze himself, giving her a small smile. He suddenly had a headful of questions, some of which had occurred to him directly after his father's lecture. At the time, the idea of prolonging that lecture had most definitely put him off, but now, with Mary standing before him, the questions felt entirely different. Suddenly, it was no longer merely academic curiosity, but a very real aspect of life with his wife. It was something about her that he didn't fully understand and very much wanted to.

But first, he needed to finish brushing his teeth. They felt grainy, and he wasn't going to be able to fall asleep with them feeling this way. He turned back to the washbasin.

She was silent behind him for a short while as he performed his task, but then he heard her footsteps receding. He straightened, now unable to speak with a mouthful of toothbrush and paste, and saw that her shoulders were stiff as she moved away.

"Wait—!" he said, his speech muffled. She turned around, one eyebrow arched, her face composed. This was a bad sign: her earlier warmth had gone.

He beckoned to her quickly with his free hand and she stopped her retreat and stood watching him, now a quirk of amusement about her lips. He turned quickly to the washbasin and finished with his task. When he could speak again he turned to her, drying his hands on the towel before leaving it on the table.

When it came to it, he wasn't sure what to say. He settled for a vague apology. "I said something wrong."

"No," Mary said.

"You're not upset?" he asked.

"No, darling," Mary approached him again. "Are you?"

"What? No. Why would I be?"

She regarded him a moment. "You're not disappointed?"

He smiled. "Well, yes. But there's nothing to be done about that."

Mary raised her eyebrows and looked at his neckline again. "I wouldn't say  _nothing_ ," she said with a provocative smile, now reaching him and running her hands down his arms. He didn't know what she expected him to do. He knew what he very much  _wanted_  to do, but that didn't seem permissible tonight, so he just watched her, trying to understand her actions.

"What's wrong?" she frowned.

"I don't know," he said.

"You  _are_  angry with me."

"No…I'm confused."

Mary nodded slowly, then closed her eyes with a sigh. "We're still so new at this," she murmured. He smiled and lifted her chin, and she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"What do want me to do?" he asked. She smiled and pressed up on her toes to kiss him. This he could do and he did, holding her gently but not pulling her body against his own.

"Come to bed," she said with a smile.

He yawned and followed her across the hall into what had been his mother's bedroom—that was going to take some getting used to, he thought, as he looked at the bed—and he smiled as he pushed the door closed behind himself. Mary was climbing between the sheets and pulling several warm layers over herself. He looked at them sceptically: it seemed a bit much to him. There was certainly a chill in the air, but if he were to spend a night next to her under that many blankets, he was going to be sweating.

"Oh, here," she said, holding something out to him. He drew up to the side of the bed and took it from her. It turned out to be a pair of socks.

He grinned. "Thank you," he said.

"Oh, don't thank me," Mary said, settling in. "Thank Molesley. He gave them to me."

Matthew shook his head, still regarding the thick layers of bedding with some trepidation. Mary was looking at him oddly, so he decided to stall for time by sitting on the side of the bed and pulling on his socks. Which, he realised in retrospect, was probably only going to make the overheating problem worse.

"Matthew."

"Yes?" He twisted to look at her.

"Why aren't you getting into bed?" she asked.

He eyed the blankets. He was starting to overheat just imagining being underneath them all, but she was clearly quite comfortable as she had tugged the blankets up around her chest. This was not something he'd considered when contemplating married life. Most of those fantasies had revolved around making love and imagining her being there when he got home from work, not practicalities like this. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Darling, the blankets," he said, gesturing at the bed. "I'm afraid it's too much. I'll be too warm."

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Really?" She looked at the blankets. "I suppose…we could throw off the duvet, and the comforter. But then," she shot him a distinctly come-hither look, "I'll need you close by to compensate."

He chuckled, then stood. "I think I can live with that. The two top layers?"

"Yes, that will leave the woollen blanket. Is that all right?"

"We'll see," he said, starting to tug off the bedclothes. He watched her shiver and decided to compromise, only pulling off the top layer.

"And the comforter—" she started, but he put out a hand.

"Let's try this," he said, and sat down on his side of the bed again, tugging off his socks.

Mary made an appreciative sound. "You must really love me, darling."

He chuckled and shook his head, then started unbuttoning his shirt as well.

"You are such a tease," she said, her voice suddenly lowered. The bedclothes shifted and he felt her draw up close behind him on her knees. He swallowed and his fingers fumbled on the buttons at the bottom of his shirt as he felt her hands tugging the top of the shirt off his shoulders. A moment later, her mouth was moving along his neck and the bared skin of one shoulder. He closed his eyes, his hands stilling, and leaned his head back against her with a groan.

" _I'm_  a tease?" he managed after a moment.

"Don't stop now, darling," she said softly, her warm breath tickling his ear and sending a pleasant shiver through him. He obeyed, breathing through his mouth as he wrenched his mind back to the task of unfastening the remaining buttons. When he finished, he steadied himself with his hands, palms down on the mattress on either side him, and moaned softly as her hands travelled down over his chest.

"What are you doing?" he asked faintly.

"I should think it's obvious," she replied, teasing at his nipples. He moaned and pressed his head back against her shoulder. His arms were still trapped at his sides by the fallen shirt.

"Actually…"  _God, this felt so good!_  "…it's not. You just said—"

"Matthew, how many times must I tell you to pay no attention to the things I say?"

Her voice was warm and teasing, but he frowned and pulled away.

"I can't do this," he said, and pulled his hands out of the shirt, shaking it off and letting it drop to the floor. He twisted to look at her. Mary had sat back on her haunches with a confused, wide-eyed look on her face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I want to—" he paused, gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh, and started again. "Look, are you saying yes or no? Trying to read your mind and ignore your words—" he shook his head and straightened again, facing away from her. "I don't like it. Why won't you just be honest with me? Straightforward?"

"I'm  _trying_  to be, Matthew. I just changed my mind, that's all."

"So your monthly doesn't matter?" he asked, turning his whole body to face her. She looked away with a frown.

"It does. I think. I'm not sure."

He stared at her. "You're not sure. What does that mean?"

She was kneading her hands. She sighed and settled down on the bed, fussing unnecessarily with the edge of her nightgown. "I want to—" her eyes flickered over him, then up to his face. "I've  _missed_  you, Matthew."

He smiled lopsidedly and reached out to cup the side of her face. "I've missed you too, Mary. More than I can say."

He pulled himself closer to her and she quickly moved into his arms, sitting with her legs lying across one of his. She curled against him with her head resting near his shoulder. They sighed and pressed together for a moment. When they relaxed again, she ran her hand over the contours of his upper arm. "I don't know what we ought to do," she said. "No one talks about this kind of thing. I want you, but…"

"But what?" he asked patiently.

"But I don't want to make a mess, or put you off."

He chuckled. "I assure you that putting me off is absolutely not a problem. If you hadn't stopped me, I'd have you at my mercy by this point, and Mother would be at the door asking if we were all right, because we'd have knocked over at least one piece of furniture."

Mary giggled. He rubbed her arm and smiled.

"So tell me," he said. "Are you afraid it might hurt?"

"Oh no," she answered.

"What does it…feel like?" he asked. "Your monthly, I mean."

"It doesn't feel like anything," she said with a shrug. "It can be a bit uncomfortable in the first couple days, but then it's just an inconvenience."

He digested this. "And how long does it last?"

She shrugged. "A week, usually."

He swallowed. He really should have asked his father these questions when he had the chance. One week out of every four, he and Mary might not be able to make love? He hadn't considered that. If pressed, he might have guessed her monthly would only last a couple days. This changed things…or perhaps, it didn't. She still seemed interested.

"It's strange," she murmured.

"What is?"

"Talking to you about this. I've never talked to anyone about this. Except, of course, when my governess discovered me crying in the bathroom when I was twelve."

"Why were you crying?"

"Because I knew it was the end of my childhood."

He nodded, reminded of the day his father died. They sat in silence a moment and then he asked, "When did this one start?"

"Two days ago," she replied.

He did a quick mental calculation and frowned. He was only here for two more nights. There was no chance of conception this time. He pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?" he asked in a near-whisper.

She shrugged. "For disappointing you."

"It's just life, darling." He opened his eyes and smiled sadly.

"I know, but we have so little time together." She sighed, then straightened and pulled away, putting on a deliberate smile as her eyes warmed. "So let's make the best of it. I want to help you finish tonight."

"What about you?" he asked with a smile, running a hand down her arm.

"I can wait until tomorrow," she said. "I didn't think to ask Anna for linens."

Matthew nodded slowly, his imagination providing him with images that weren't nearly as disturbing as he might otherwise have expected. No, he didn't think this would put him off, but they would need to plan more carefully, as she said.

"Very well," he said. "Whatever you think best."

Mary grinned. "Well, in  _that_  case…" She rose up on her knees, took his face in her hands, and kissed him thoroughly. He hummed and she gave a soft laugh. She pushed at his shoulders and he acquiesced, straightening out to lie on his back. Mary climbed atop him and he was sure that the wide smile on his face matched the one on hers.

"God, I've missed this," she murmured. "You've no idea."

"I think I do," he said, writhing a little under her touch and chuckling.

"Mmm, perhaps," she said, between kisses. He sighed as her lips moved over the sensitive hollow of his collarbone. When her head moved down and she began to pay attention to his nipple, he groaned and closed his eyes.

"I won't need much tonight, darling," he said, pushing gently at her shoulders. "I'm on too fine a point as it is."

"Of course," she murmured, lifting her head with a smile. She kissed him on the lips.

"May I see you?" he asked, running his hands along the bottom edge of her nightgown and beginning to push it up her legs.

She frowned. "Oh…no, I don't think you'd want that."

"Why not?"

Mary gave him a smile and moved her hips to dislodge his hands. "Let me just pay my attentions to you tonight, darling."

Matthew frowned up at the ceiling as she began to plant a small trail of kisses down his chest. He stroked her upper arms after a moment, finally gripping them and holding her back.

"Mmm?" she lifted her head, disappointment clear in her expression.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

She gave a sigh of exasperation and sat back. " _Nothing_  is wrong. I thought you'd be eager for this!"

"I am," he said, letting go of his frown. He smiled and ran a hand over her leg. "Very much. But, Mary…"

"Yes, Matthew?"

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. Why wasn't this working tonight? He cast about for what to say. As eager as he was, it wasn't merely for his own pleasure. He so very much enjoyed watching hers as well, being able to participate equally in the giving of it.

"Are you certain that you don't wish to finish as well, tonight?" he asked.

She grimaced. "It's as I said." She glanced at the bedclothes around them. "I can't."

He pulled himself up to a seated position and she leaned back to give him room, moving her weight off his leg.

"If I told you that you needn't worry about the mess, would you want to finish?"

She frowned. "Matthew—"

"Would you?"

"I suppose. Yes." She smiled. "Very much."

He tugged her near for a kiss and closed his eyes as their lips met. She responded with passion and he smiled, feeling his confidence return.

"Well then," he said when they drew apart, and he carefully pulled his leg out from underneath her.

"What are you doing?" she asked sharply, as he climbed off the bed and picked up his pyjama shirt.

"What linens do you think we'd need?" he asked, quickly buttoning up his shirt.

Mary's eyes were wide, staring at him. She frowned, then looked to the side in thought.

"A bath sheet…perhaps half a dozen flannels…a basin of warm water? I'm not certain. Where are you going?"

Matthew was tying the sash of his robe. "To get what you've asked for."

Mary frowned. "We can't disturb the servants! They're probably preparing for bed by now."

Matthew smirked. "Who said anything about disturbing them? I'll collect it all myself."

Mary rose from the bed and came to stand before him, a slow smile dawning on her face, and she put her hands on his chest. "I love you," she said.

He chuckled and lowered his head to meet her as she kissed him. "I'll be right back," he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

He returned shortly thereafter with an armload of linens in a wooden basin, and Mary took the pile from him with a businesslike air and a small smile.

"Just one more thing," he said, gesturing with the empty ewer he held in his free hand, and he stepped out again.

When he came back in a couple minutes later, he smiled to see that Mary had made herself comfortable under the blankets once more. This time they were tucked up under her chin.

"I can only imagine what your mother must think, hearing you creeping around at this hour," Mary said.

"I doubt she cares," he said, bring the ewer of warm water across the room, to set it down beside the wooden basin. "She's accustomed to me wandering the house at odd hours."

"Why would you be doing that?"

Matthew gave her a self-deprecating smile. "Replacing books, retrieving others, sneaking a bite from the kitchen. The usual reasons, I suppose. Why? Don't you?"

"Well, no, I don't usually go wandering about after bedtime," Mary said with a smirk. "Certainly not since I was a child. It wasn't allowed."

He looked around, satisfied, and then began removing his robe with a grin. "Now where were we?"

Mary smiled, watching him with an appreciative expression as he continued to take off his clothing. He noted the way her eyes roved over him, and he was grateful that she did not call attention to the latest marks of war that he had acquired. None of them were serious, thank God.

"I believe that you had asked to see me?" she said sweetly, and tugged the blankets down just enough to be provocative, revealing an unmarred expanse of bare skin that promised so much more with just another small tug. He grinned. He stepped out of his pyjama trousers and pulled back the bedclothes, his mouth falling open with a soft exclamation of pleasure at the sight of her. The familiar curves and slim lines and soft, dark hair. There was something so luxuriant and beautiful in the way she lay there before him, exposed and trusting and confident. She smiled but then shivered, so he quickly climbed in beside her and pulled the blankets over them. She made herself comfortable against him and he pulled her close, kissing her softly at first, then more urgently as she met his passion.  _Yes, this._

Their legs tangled together as his hand moved down her body, her skin soft, muscles firm, limbs strong and slender. Her hands ran over him and he tingled at her touch, sighing into her mouth and laughing as she teased at him with playful fingers. He moved his head down to tease her in return, pulling away just enough to run his lips over the soft swells of her breasts. Her moans and sighs urged him on and he smiled and closed his eyes, let his tongue play where he knew she would enjoy it most. He felt almost dizzy with pleasure and happiness. To be afforded such a privilege, such intimate access to her again!

Opening his eyes, he reminded himself that this was promised to him for the rest of their lives together. He offered up a silent swell of gratitude as he continued to revel in the sight of her moving body and the responses he was evoking in her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth had fallen open, and she writhed with a small moan, then arched her back slightly, pressing her breasts up against his hand and mouth. He hummed his approval and smiled. He let his hand drift downward as he continued to lick and tease her and her hips bucked under his palm when he found his target. Watching her give herself up to his touch filled him with the urge move within her. He knew the passion she was capable of and he wanted to see her display it,  _for him_ , but she was curiously muted this evening…

She was restraining herself, he realised, and understanding her reluctance to abandon caution, he lifted his head, drew his hand up to cradle her side, and murmured, "What do you need me to do?"

Her eyes opened and she gave him a drugged smile, then ran her hands up into his hair, inviting him back up beside her again. He obliged and their lips met and gave way to a soft play of tongues. When she released him, he sucked briefly on her bottom lip before drawing away to meet her eyes, giving her a drugged smile of his own.

"I think it might be best if we just start and finish with you atop me," she said, smiling and kissing him again. "Keep it simple."

He considered this a moment. His usual attentions might not be suitable under the circumstances, but he had no wish to rush her or make her uncomfortable. "But are you ready?" he asked.

"Oh, my darling," she said with a beatific smile, "I'm very much ready. You needn't worry about that."

He grinned. "Well, in  _that_  case…" He paused, frowning.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked down between their bodies. Their usual methods for readying him weren't likely to work. How to achieve this without requiring her to move a great deal? He smiled, having a sudden idea.

"I'd like to try something," he said, looking to her for permission.

"What is it?" she asked. Her eyes twinkled with curiosity and she smiled. "Has my endlessly-creative husband come up with yet another  _idea_?"

"You make it seem a dirty word, darling," he said with a smirk.

She ran her fingers up into his hair and pulled him close for a kiss. He sighed with pleasure as her nails traced over his scalp.

"Not a  _dirty_  word," she murmured, kissing him again. "Just a  _stimulating_  one."

He chuckled against her lips. "I hope you find it so." He ran a thumb and forefinger over her nipple. She arched sinuously against him with a sigh. He smiled. No, they would not need much more  _stimulation_.

He grinned, then extricated himself from her arms and rose up on his knees, careful to dislodge the blankets as little as possible. He'd felt the gooseflesh when her skin was exposed to the room's cooler air.

"What should I do?" she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes, her cheeks flushed pink and her lips red and inviting.

He grinned. "Lie back and think of England?"

She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed.

"In all seriousness, though," she said.

"Lie on your back. I'm about to do something shocking."

"Ooh, Mr Crawley," she murmured, but obeyed. He gripped the headboard with one hand and watched her face closely as he moved, ready to stop in an instant if she looked distressed. He should have known she wouldn't be, he reflected as he carefully settled his knees under her armpits, keeping the blankets in place. Instead, there was a look of delighted intrigue on her face. He chuckled and took hold of himself.

"Now—"

"Clever," she said with a smile, running her hands up the backs of his legs, and she anticipated his request. Her mouth closed over him so quickly that he barely managed to get his other hand on to the headboard in time to prevent himself toppling forward. As it was, his grip was only half-formed and his hand slipped until it found a groove in the woodwork. By then, he was heedless of the headboard and everything else as he groaned and stiffened and threw his head back. She hummed appreciatively around him, her fingertips playing under his backside and making his muscles clench at her light touch. When he came back to his senses a short while later— _wet_ ,  _heat_ —he groaned again, trying to control his movements. She was in a vulnerable position beneath him; he had to be careful. But it had been  _months!_  He fought the urge to drive into her and gripped the headboard more tightly. He was certain he was ready by now and he tried to draw away, but her mouth followed him. Her tongue was relentless and he groaned and trembled.

"Mary," he gasped, and he kept pulling away. His heart was pounding, his arms and legs feeling briefly unsteady.  _God_ , he needed to be in her.

She was of the same mind it seemed, and without any further delay, she held up the blankets and helped him climb back underneath them. His eyes widened and then closed as he slid inside her with a groan of pleasure; she was so warm, so wet, so swollen and tight around him. He pressed his forehead into the pillow beside her cheek and moved against her, feeling her hands urging him into her. Her invitation was insistent, his answer more than willing. They moved together in the warm, low light, sighing and close. He held off for as long as he could, but eventually he had nothing left, not even after pausing to try to regain some staying power, and he finished with a tight shuddering that went on for longer than he had expected. He gave himself up to it and as he neared the end of the wave, he felt her pulsing around him and he groaned. The sensation was too much; he was too sensitive by then, but he grimaced and arched away even as he kept himself inside her, unwilling to stop her pleasure. She shushed him and soothed his hot skin with her cool hands, encouraging him back down as she drew in a deep breath, and he settled on to her, resting some of his weight on his elbows and breathing until the trembling weakness left his limbs and all that remained was a warm relaxation. He sighed and turned his head to press a kiss to her temple.

"I love you," he murmured. "Thank you."

"Oh, my darling!" she said, her hands coming round his back until her arms squeezed and then relaxed. "I love you, too."

They lay in silence for some time, dozing, and then he sighed and rose up on his elbows.

"Shall we see what there is to clean up?" he murmured, and ran a hand through the hair that framed the side of her face. He smiled when her nose wrinkled up in disgust and he planted a kiss on the tip of it. "Up, then," he said.

They worked the blankets off. There really was quite a lot of blood. He glanced at their surroundings and saw that the flannels were within her reach, but he'd left the ewer and the wooden washtub out of his reach. He rolled his eyes and chuckled. What had he been thinking? Ah well, this was a lesson for next time.

He smiled groggily at that thought—how tired he was!—and gingerly made his way off the bed, careful not to soil any of the bedclothes. He turned carefully to the chest of drawers where the washtub and the ewer stood, poured the water into the tub, and turned. Arms outstretched, he and Mary managed to navigate the distance between them and he quickly wet the flannels and handed them to her.

She climbed carefully off the bed and they went about their respective business. Matthew found the whole process rather peaceful and he was glad that Mary was willing to do this in his presence. Before this evening, she'd always seemed reluctant to let him see her except when she was immaculately done up. He supposed that she didn't have much choice in this smaller room, with the bathroom across the hall and the need to clean  _before_  going into it. He felt a pang at ever having asked her, a Lady, to live here with him. Moving about in these smaller quarters, making concessions to the realities of married life and the limiting architecture of Crawley House…

He swallowed and stepped aside as she moved past. She went quickly round the bed and he watched in curiosity as she stepped into larger pants than he was accustomed to seeing her wear. There was something bulky in them that she adjusted quickly before shrugging on her nightgown and robe and tying the sash. She opened the door a crack, glanced out, and then left, pulling it quickly closed behind her. She seemed to be adapting to this situation with grace, but he frowned as he continued, now left alone with his thoughts.

Matthew finished cleaning himself and dressed for bed. He gathered up the bath sheet and the filled washtub and made his way out into the hall just as Mary emerged from the bathroom. Her eyes were wide in the dim light that spilled out through the open doorway behind him.

"Where are you taking those?" she asked in a whisper.

He nodded past her. "To rinse them out," he whispered back. "They'll be easier to launder later if the stain doesn't set."

"You would do that?" she asked, looking taken aback.

"Of course," he said. Washing out a few reddened flannels was nothing; this blood didn't bring with it a terrible injury or death.

He was no longer the same man who had married Lady Mary Crawley, but then she was no longer the same woman, either: he watched her with wide eyes as she took the washtub from him and went back into the bathroom. She brought the container to the bathtub and began running the linens under fresh water from the faucet. He had a great urge to relieve himself but he knelt beside her to help, forcing himself to wait until she had finished the task, cleaned her hands, and stepped out with a whispered apology when she realised what he'd been waiting to do. He'd seen a new steel in her eyes and it surprised him and made him proud of her.

He smiled at her when he returned to the bedroom a few minutes later. Removing his shirt and socks, he climbed quickly under the blankets and they settled together.

"I love you," he murmured, relaxing into the warmth.

"I know you do," she said with a smirk, raising her head to press a soft kiss to his lips. "And I love you so very much! Thank you for this night. You were magnificent!"

He chuckled. "I thought I was to apply that accolade to  _you_." His words were sleepy and beginning to slur.

"It's your turn tonight." She smiled and settled down against him once more. "You've earned it."

He hummed, too tired even to chuckle, and fell asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

_18_

The last night of Matthew's leave was spent at Crawley House. They'd begged off dinner with the rest of the family, opting instead for a quiet evening in the sitting room with a fire crackling in the hearth. Dinner had been a time for animated conversation, but afterwards, by mutual silent agreement, the three of them had settled down to read, Isobel with her letters, Mary with a novel, and Matthew with a small stack of recent newspapers brought in by Molesley. Isobel's feet were nearest the fire by virtue of her having chosen the chair closest to the hearth; Mary would have liked to sit in that chair, but she'd draped herself with a throw and was content on the sofa. Matthew, however, sat at the opposite end of the sofa and seemed to think the room too warm, for he had removed his tunic and boots.

Mary had to admit that she didn't mind his relaxation of propriety in the least, for she kept stealing glances at him. She found that she liked watching the way his shirt moved—or rather, the way his muscles under his shirt moved—each time he turned the pages. Eventually, he glanced back at her, his brow furrowed in slight concern, but she just quirked her lips and let her eyes drift slowly down his torso. When she raised them to meet his again, he gave her a smug grin and then repaid the compliment with a lingering gaze of his own, finishing it with an appreciative hum when his eyes were somewhere in the vicinity of her bottom.

"Something of interest in the papers?" Isobel asked, glancing up at them. Mary's eyes quickly met Matthew's and she suppressed a giggle and forced her gaze back down to her book. Given the angle of Isobel's chair compared to their own seats, the bulk of their exchange had been hidden by the upraised newspaper Matthew was holding.

Matthew shuffled the papers, unnecessarily straightening them out. "No, not particularly," he replied. "The Cabinet ordered the evacuation of Anzac and Suvla. What an awful mess."

"How bad is it, really?" Mary asked.

Matthew frowned. "Gallipoli's been our most comprehensive defeat so far." His frown deepened. "We don't often get the latest news at the front; I suppose they want to keep us focused on our own theatre. But it's difficult not to wonder what else they're hiding from us and whether they'd have the wits to pull  _us_  out soon enough if the tide were to turn against us."

Isobel had put down her letters and taken off her glasses. "That savours of bitterness, Matthew."

He sighed and lowered the newspaper, folding it and laying it atop the pile.

"I suppose it does," he said, and fell silent.

Mary looked at him a moment, then saw that Isobel was frowning at him, and decided that he didn't need his wife to be staring accusingly at him, too. This bitterness wasn't like him, she thought, but she couldn't be sure. How well did she know him, really? She frowned down at her book. Something had been bothering him these past three days. She'd noticed the way he lapsed into frowning silence when left to his own devices. This was their last evening together; if she wished to discover what was wrong, she must try tonight. She didn't know if he would welcome her prying. He hadn't before. With so little time left to them, she resolved to let the matter drop if he chose not to speak. She would simply be grateful for his presence. Whatever it was could not be allowed to mar their few remaining hours together. But she still had to try, if only to see if she could offer him some comfort…

She looked up, realising that he had not responded to Isobel's silent question. Isobel had gone back to her letters and Matthew now sat with one arm draped on the armrest beside the newspapers, but he did not reach for another to read. Instead, he was frowning and staring at the fire crackling quietly in front of him. Mary suppressed a shiver at the faraway look in his eyes. What was he seeing? What dreams haunted him? In both of the previous two nights, he'd shuddered in his sleep, once throwing his arm over his face and curling away from her into a foetal position. The suddenness of the motion had woken her out of a sound sleep as his elbow had grazed her cheek. His muscles had been knotted and his body tense, although he hadn't made a sound. She'd rubbed his back and murmured senseless comforts until she'd felt him relax into proper sleep again, and she'd never asked him about it afterwards.

His hand rested between them now on the sofa. She touched it—and he jerked. She immediately pulled her hand away as if from a hot poker and he glanced at her, drew in a breath, and gave her a weak smile.

"What's wrong?" she asked, mindful that Isobel was watching them.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong," he said, and his hand found hers. He gave it a squeeze and pressed his lips together in a more reassuring smile. "You just startled me, darling, that's all."

When his gaze drifted away again, Mary exchanged a look with Isobel. Mary was slightly relieved to see her own concern reflected in his mother's eyes. Perhaps Mary did know her husband well enough to see that something wasn't entirely right. She looked at the fire. What  _was_  right, these days? The war was changing everything. She could only hope that it didn't change him…too much. She dreaded losing the lovely man she knew to a distant, bitter stranger, hardened by who knew what horrors.

That was a bit melodramatic, really, but there was so much she didn't understand, was not permitted to understand. She wanted to trust his judgement in this, but it still stung to be excluded from what now constituted his daily life. She had no desire to go to war, of course, but she wished so terribly much that he was not being forced to endure it, either. She wished that he hadn't chosen to go—but there was no point in revisiting that argument. His sense of integrity had compelled him to become a soldier. She had married him knowing that he had strong moral principles and although she loved him dearly, the current situation was an unfortunate consequence of accepting him as he was.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, a half-smile on his face. The look in his eyes was raw: he seemed almost desperate for a reason to smile. She blinked back a sudden pricking in her eyes and smiled gently at him.

"Just thinking about you," she said.

His eyebrows rose and then his expression softened into a genuine smile. After a moment, he yawned, raised his elbows, and stretched back, and she could hear the soft popping of his spine.

"Well, I'm knackered," he said.

"You've an early day tomorrow," Isobel said, looking up from her letters. "Mrs Bird promised to have a full breakfast ready for you."

Matthew smiled and sat forward. "Bless her," he murmured. "She could just leave out some coffee and porridge for me to warm. That would be luxury enough."

"She wouldn't hear of it," Isobel said with a smile.

Matthew chuckled. "I don't suppose Molesley will let me escape unmolested, either."

"Matthew!" Mary said, glancing back at the open sitting room door. If the valet should hear him…

Matthew smiled. "Don't worry. I told him to take the rest of the evening for himself." He glanced at Mary. "He knows how much I appreciate his efforts." Matthew sighed. "I just don't like rousing the entire house unnecessarily."

"Seeing you off is hardly unnecessary, darling," Mary said, looking back down at her book. "Your visit is the highlight of our winter."

"What about Christmas?" Matthew smirked. "That only comes round once a year and involves the Son of God."

"Who at the moment is disembodied and thus accessible year-round," Mary replied dryly. "You're the one we don't get enough time with."

Isobel chuckled.

Matthew glanced between them, smiling. "I ought to be crying 'heresy!' or some such thing, but really I'm just grateful."

"As you should be," Isobel said, returning to her letters. "Don't begrudge us our affection."

Matthew shook his head, then stood up and gathered his tunic and shoes. He walked around Mary, drawing his hand across her shoulder as he moved past the back of the sofa. She twisted to look up at him and he smiled.

"I'm done in as well," she said, setting the book aside and pulling off the throw. "I think I'll join you."

"Good night, Mother," Matthew said. Isobel looked up at them with a wide smile.

"Good night, both of you," she said. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

They murmured similar thanks and then left the room. Anna stepped out of the kitchen when they started up the stairs.

"Will you be requiring me this evening, my lady?" she asked. Mary glanced at Matthew and then turned to smile at Anna.

"No, Anna, you've the evening to yourself."

The maid smiled at this. "Very good, my lady. Have a good night."

"And you," Mary said.

"Good night, Anna," Matthew said.

"Good night, sir."

They heard a knocking on the back door and Anna's eyes widened. She turned her head quickly towards the sound and Mary raised her eyebrows.

"Who would be calling at such a late hour, and at the back door?" she asked with a frown.

Anna quickly shot them a nervous smile and hurried out of sight. They both bent to listen. A man's low tones entered the kitchen, following by Anna's murmuring.

"Is that Bates?" Mary muttered.

"I think so," Matthew replied, grinning. "Let's leave them to it."

Mary glanced at him with a smile. "You don't mind?"

"Why would I?" Matthew shrugged. "It's no business of mine."

They resumed climbing the stairs.

"You don't take Papa's position that the maids shouldn't have followers?" Mary asked.

"She's young. Why shouldn't she be allowed to have a suitor just because she's in service?"

"Why, Matthew, you're a romantic."

Matthew chuckled as he opened the door to his dressing room and strode through. "If you haven't figured that out before now, I'll have to redouble my efforts to convince you."

Mary laughed and followed him inside, rather looking forward to watching him undress. She pushed the door closed behind herself and watched as he set down the tunic and boots.

"I hope you won't be disappointed, darling," Matthew said, loosening his tie until he could tug it off.

"Why would I be?" she asked.

"I know it's our last night together and I do want you, but really I'd rather just hold you. I'm just so tired."

She nodded, half-expecting such a response from him. They had certainly made the best of their few days together. In addition to taking a late breakfast this morning after their activities the night before, in the afternoon Mary had found Matthew sorting through a drawer of his underthings. One wry comment had led to a witty retort and they'd soon found themselves engaging in a rather energetic midday romp, interspersed with hushed giggles as they besought each other not to draw the attention of the rest of the household. By the time they were quite finished, they'd ended up making inventive use of most of his dressing room. She was certain she would never be able to see this room in quite the same way as she had before, and she smiled as her eyes glanced over the furniture, remembering the particular uses that each piece had been put to.

"I'm not disappointed," she said, tugging off her shoes and then her stockings. "I would very much enjoy just being held by you."

Matthew smiled. "Good, because I've been meaning to talk with you. Somehow, we never seem to get that far when we're alone together."

Mary drifted closer to him, a wicked smile growing on her face. "I can't imagine why, darling."

Matthew laughed and stopped working through the buttons of his shirt so that he could lift his hands in mock surrender. "Mercy, please! I'm still worn out from this afternoon."

She reached up to finish his buttons for him.

"I'm not being too demanding, am I?" she asked.

"Oh, God, no!" he said with a grin. "Demand away! It does wonders for my ego, you know."

She smiled and rose up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips, sinking against him with a sigh when his arms came around her.

"As well it should," she murmured, and he chuckled against her skin. "You have nothing to be insecure about."

"Oh, I know  _that_ ," he smirked.

"You're incorrigible," she said, rolling her eyes.

"And you love me for it."

She laughed softly and sank back down to the soles of her feet, giving his backside a fond pat. "Your virtue is safe with me this evening, darling."

"Always," he answered. He lifted his hands to her shoulders and kissed her forehead before releasing her. She stepped back and let him continue undressing without interruption, standing beside the wardrobe as she watched him.

"So what did you want to discuss?" she asked.

He glanced aside, then back to her. "Why did you move out of the big house?"

She gave a mirthless laugh. "You don't ease into these things, do you?"

"I don't see the point. Would the question really be any easier to answer if I drew it out?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I was desperately eager to move in with your mother?"

Matthew gave her a look.

"It's partly true," Mary prevaricated.

Matthew intensified his look.

She gave in to her urge to smile as she looked away. "Yes, she can be a bit bossy—" Mary said, and Matthew chuckled, "—but she's also free with her praise. It's refreshing, actually."

"I'm delighted that you seem to enjoy each other's company," he said. "She's very fond of you, you know."

"Really?" Mary smiled.

"Yes. It comes through in her letters. I think your being here has lifted her spirits a great deal."

Mary frowned. "I hadn't realised she was struggling." Then Mary thought back to when Isobel had invited her for dinner and how she had seemed to want to dine with Mary rather often. At the time, Mary had merely thought that her mother-in-law was being hospitable, but had Isobel actually been terribly lonely?

"She hides it well; she keeps busy," Matthew said.

Mary nodded, considering Isobel in this light.

"What's the real reason you left?" he asked, taking pyjamas out of a drawer.

Mary sighed and turned away, then wandered over to the wash table where she idly picked up an item or two before setting them down again. Matthew continued to dress behind her in silence. She knew his eyes were on her. She turned back around.

"I've come to the unfortunate realisation that the only person at Downton Abbey who really notices me anymore is Carson," Mary said, and then, after a pause, "and Sybil."

Matthew frowned. "Surely it can't be that bad."

Mary picked up Matthew's styptic pencil and rolled it between her fingers. "I'm no longer of interest," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Mama always paid me more attention than Edith or Sybil," Mary said. "I took that for granted, thinking myself more important, or more…oh, I don't know!" She set down the pencil forcefully and paced to the window. "Mama put more of her time into finding me a husband than she did Edith or Sybil, because I was fast becoming an old maid."

Matthew snorted. "Hardly. You're— How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"My mother didn't marry my father until she was twenty-seven."

"The rules are more restrictive for my kind of people," Mary said, looking away again. Her eyes drifted out the window, caught by how the light from inside the house put the stonework into sharp relief. The back garden of Crawley House was small, but well-kept. Molesley's handiwork, inherited from his father, Mary suspected. Although there wasn't much to show for it in winter, the shrubs were well-trimmed.

"Still, twenty-four is quite young," Matthew said.

Mary turned on him. "What do you know of it?" she demanded. "You're a man. You could have taken your first wife at fifty and no one would have complained."

"Mother would have," Matthew said with a grin, then sobered at her expression. "I'm sorry. Go on."

Mary looked back out the window with a shrug. "Mama must turn her attention to where it is needed most, and at the moment that is Edward."

"And Edith, I suppose," Matthew said, his voice quiet.

Mary nodded.

She looked up when Matthew crossed the small space to lay his discarded clothing over a chair beside his bag, which was already mostly packed. Mary quickly looked back out the window. Three days— _barely_  three days—was no time at all. Would she ever see him again? She didn't want to spend their last few hours together talking about her own troubles.

"You've been very quiet these last few days," Mary said. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

Matthew smirked, setting down the last of his items of clothing. "I wouldn't have thought 'quiet' was the word you would choose, given how vocal I recall being at times."

Mary chuckled. "You can be rather expressive, yes. But I find that I like it a great deal." Her eyes caught his and she suppressed a smile. "A very great deal."

He grinned, coming up to her and kissing her. "Good," he said, pulling away, his grin softening. His eyes flickered to her hair and then back down to her face. "And don't think I'm done with you yet," he said. "This change of subject is only temporary."

Mary scowled at him as he turned away and he gave her a gently reproving look. She took the opportunity to let her hand run along his backside and he hummed and smiled over his shoulder as he moved across the room to the wash table.

She sighed. "I'll see you," she said, crossing to the door. She picked up her shoes and stockings. He nodded and reached for his toothbrush as she stepped out into the hall.

When he entered their bedroom a few minutes later, after she'd finished her nightly ablutions and laid out a warm, high-necked nightgown, she rose from the bed, drew off her dressing gown, and presented her back to him. He loosened her corset with practised hands and kissed the back of her neck as he finished, and she smiled and gave a sigh of relief and pleasure. He went back around the bed and climbed under the covers, watching her strip down quickly, shivering, and pull the nightgown over her head. When she pushed her head out, she saw that he was watching her with a small smile playing on his lips. She looked down and smiled, finished pulling the garment on, put out the light, and then climbed in eagerly beside him.

He hissed and drew away. "Your feet are freezing!"

"Shut up and warm me, then," she said, clinging closer and purposely running her icy toes up his calf.

He sighed and complied.

"You're going to miss this, admit it," she said.

He chuckled and sighed. "Uncle."

She acquiesced and pulled her toes away with a smile, then apologised with a brief kiss. They settled together and his hand fell into a drifting rhythm along her back. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Was feeling neglected the only reason you left?" Matthew asked.

Mary frowned without opening her eyes. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

"No," he said. "We don't  _have_  to. But I would like to."

She sighed. "Why? How can my being a selfish fool possibly be interesting?"

"Oh, Mary," he said, tightening his embrace for a moment and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You're not a selfish fool."

She fought the way that the corners of her mouth pulled down. "I feel like one."

She resisted the sudden, unexpected urge to cry but his comfort undid her and hot tears spilled out of her eyes. Her breath drew in sharply as a sob shook her, and she turned her face into his shirt.

He held her in silence, continuing to rub her back, until she regained her composure and drew away, pushing herself up. He took the opportunity to twist away from her and reached for the handkerchief on his bedside table. She accepted it from him with a watery smile and dried her face, then held it out.

He eyed it. "Are you sure you won't be needing that?"

She gave a soft laugh and lay back down again, the kerchief still in hand. She burrowed against his warm—and now damp—chest.

"Mary, you must not let how anyone else sees you become how you see yourself," he said. "Just because you have been told all your life that you're not good enough does not make it true." His arm around her loosened and he encouraged her to pull back until he had a firm grip on her shoulder. He fixed her in a direct gaze. "You are one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. I am convinced that you can do whatever you set your mind to."

She looked down and nodded, but he pushed her chin up until their eyes met again.

"You don't believe me," he said.

She frowned and drew her face away from his hand. "I  _am_  intelligent, for a woman," she said. "I know that."

"No," he said, pushing himself up on to his elbow and rolling to face her. "Not 'for a woman'. I misspoke. You are one of the most intelligent  _people_  it has ever been my privilege to know, and I thank God every day that you agreed to be my wife."

"Oh, Matthew!" she cupped his cheek and pressed in for a kiss. She drew away with a sigh. "If only more men thought like you."

He smiled. "Someday, they will. The war is changing many things." He frowned. "We just need to survive it first."

"Shhh," she said, drawing him back down beside her. They lay, facing one another, as she ran a hand over his temple, stroked his hair, tried to memorise his features. He closed his eyes.

"Feeling unworthy wasn't the only reason I wanted to leave home," she said.

He opened his eyes. "What else was it?"

She looked down and frowned. Her hand in his hair stilled and she let it drop to the mattress. He picked it up and held it to his chest, drawing her eyes back to him, and she gave him a sad smile.

"Do you ever worry about becoming a father?"

He considered this and after a moment, he said, "No."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "What is there to worry about?"

She frowned.

"Why are  _you_  worried?" he asked gently.

She shook her head, still frowning. His hand stroked her neck, her shoulder, her arm, coaxing her back to him.

"Sybil is such a natural," she said finally. "Even Edith is good at it, shockingly."

"You are horrid when you want to be," Matthew said.

"I know," Mary smirked. "But you love me, don't you?"

"Madly," he said with a grin, and she met him for a brief kiss. She settled down beside him again. He was quiet and then he said, "Davis's wife just had their third, a son. He told me he was terrified before the birth of their first child, but he soon realised there was nothing to be afraid of. The real challenge was being deprived of sleep."

"Yes, well, that's what nannies are for."

He chuckled. "So I take it that you're not vastly excited by the prospect of living with an infant?"

"Something like that," she said. "And as I no longer have Diamond as a recourse…"

He pressed his lips together and nodded. Then he met her eyes and smiled.

"You don't need to worry," he said. "You'll know what to do when the time comes."

"That's what everyone says."

They regarded each other for a long moment in silence.

"So what's been bothering  _you?_ " she asked.

He frowned and rolled on to his back, rested his hands on his stomach.

"Is it returning to the front?"

"I don't relish the prospect, but…no."

She waited. He stared at the ceiling.

"It's not my place to speak," he finally said.

"And when has that ever stopped you before?" she asked.

He gave a short laugh. "You know me too well."

"Good. Now out with it."

He sighed again.

"I'm worried about Downton."

"Downton?" she repeated. "Whatever for?"

He drew in a deep breath, let it out. "I'm concerned about Robert's investment strategy. I don't think it's sound."

She waved a hand. "Papa knows what he's doing. He's been the Earl for nearly a quarter-century."

"Normally, I would agree with you, but after what I heard—" his frown deepened. He turned to look at her. "Mary, he's investing the whole of the Estate's liquid assets in a single company!"

Mary rose up on one elbow and frowned down at him. "That can't be right. You must have misheard."

Matthew shook his head. "I only wish I had."

She looked away, puzzled. "But isn't it unwise to put all your eggs in one basket?"

"Absolutely!" Matthew said, making an annoyed gesture. "Murray tried to talk him out of it, but Robert was insistent."

Mary looked at him. "But why?"

Matthew's expression was derisive. "Too many details to manage otherwise."

Mary frowned. "That doesn't sound like Papa."

"Doesn't it?" Matthew asked. "I think it does."

"Why are you so set against him?" she asked, becoming angry.

Matthew's eyes widened and he held out his hands, placating her. "I'm not, Mary. I'm just worried. Your father does have a history of glossing over the details. I've seen him do it repeatedly with the cottages. He loses interest when the conversation becomes too embroiled in the particulars. He often left me to sort out the details with Jarvis." Matthew frowned. "That usually didn't go over very well. Without Robert's backing, it created more work for me to convince Jarvis and the foremen. They are reluctant to act without his explicit approval."

"As they should be," she returned quickly.

"Not when the idea is a good one," Matthew answered, clearly annoyed. He covered his eyes. "God, please, not you, too."

She frowned.

"He's not a lazy man," she said.

"I'm not saying he is," Matthew said quickly, drawing his hands away from his face. "I'm just saying that he prefers to look at the big picture. And he's very good at doing that, absolutely. A man in his position needs to have that skill. But he also needs to be willing to get down into the details. How else can he be certain that everything's in hand?"

"Papa believes in trusting his people," Mary said slowly.

Matthew nodded. "That's all very well," he said. "Admirable, even. But it does not excuse sloppiness."

She frowned and laid down on her back beside him, her thoughts in turmoil. Although Matthew was familiar with her father in a way that she had never been permitted to be, she could not shake the sense that she recognised something in Matthew's assessment. She'd seen her father deferring to Carson on numerous occasions and had thought it a sign of both his respect for Carson's judgement and his kindness to his servants, qualities that she strove to imitate. As she had never seen any negative repercussions of this approach, she had never had reason to doubt her father's wisdom before.

She did not like being asked to consider him in this new light.

She could easily be angry with her father for her own reasons, but to hear him being criticised by anyone outside the immediate family, even Matthew, raised her hackles. She frowned and stared at the ceiling.

She felt Matthew's hand run along her arm.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said. "I hadn't planned on telling you because I didn't want to upset you, but since you asked me directly…"

She nodded, still silent.

He shrugged beside her. "I only came into the tail end of the conversation. Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps he knows something I don't about the Grand Trunk Railway. Perhaps it might all work out and pay off handsomely."

She turned to look at him. "But you don't think that's likely."

"I don't know. That's the point. No one does, not really."

She nodded and looked away again. "And if this investment goes badly…"

"…everything could be lost," he finished.

She rolled on to her side, facing away from him, and realised she still had the damp kerchief in her hand. She put it on her bedside table and then made herself comfortable on her pillow. After a long moment, she heard him sigh and start to turn away from her and she looked back over her shoulder. She did not want to spend this, their final night together on his leave, at odds with him.

"I'm not angry with you," she said, and patted the mattress directly behind her. "Please?"

His face lit up and he obeyed her so quickly that she giggled.

"What?" he asked, his arm sliding around her waist as he fit himself against her.

She felt a prodding behind her head and she lifted it in annoyed confusion, then realised he was just finding a comfortable way to slide his other arm underneath her head. She felt him settle and she smiled as she sank back against his warmth and firmness, closing her eyes. He sighed and his breath ran across her neck.

"Just you," she said.

"I amuse you?"

"Mmm," she said, moving her bottom slowly against his hips. "Amongst other things."

He laughed. "You're insatiable."

"You're not complaining."

"Absolutely not," he rumbled, pressing warm lips behind her ear. Then he relaxed back. "But I  _am_  still tired."

She made a disappointed sound and he chuckled.

"All right," he said. "Once more in the morning. But I can't delay. You must rouse me by half-past or I'll miss the train."

"Agreed," she said with a grin, and turned her head to kiss him. "I'll hold you to that."

"If you don't, I will," he said, grinning back.

And she settled down again, closing her eyes and humming her contentment.

* * *

"I trust you saw Matthew off properly this morning?" Violet asked, smiling at Mary over tea and biscuits. "We didn't see much of either of you these past few days."

"Why, Granny," Mary said, setting down her teacup. "You'll need your smelling-salts if we are to continue this line of conversation."

Violet glanced briefly at Mary's waist. "I'm just glad to see you happy," she said, nodding in a self-satisfied way. "Both of you."

Mary smirked. "Yes, you made a brilliant match."

Violet just raised her eyebrows. "More tea?"

"Yes, please."

"So," Violet said, lifting the teapot and beginning to pour for Mary. "What brings you here? I'm not objecting, mind you, but you never darken my doorstep without good reason."

"Am I really so mercenary?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Violet answered, pouring herself another cup. She set down the teapot. "It's one of your best qualities."

Mary shook her head as she picked up her teacup and saucer. She took a sip while looking out the window. "I'm afraid Matthew doesn't share your values."

"Of course he doesn't. These men of the moral high ground never do. But you and I both know that sometimes one must do distasteful things. We do not always have the luxuries that men have."

Mary met her eyes and nodded.

"What is the matter?" Violet asked.

Mary sighed and frowned. "It might be nothing; I'm not sure."

"But you are concerned. Is something amiss with Matthew? He seemed very distracted during Thursday dinner."

"No, not at all."

Violet relaxed and smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

"It's about Papa," Mary said. "I extracted it from Matthew last night. He was rather reluctant to speak of it."

"Robert?" Violet asked. "What could possibly be amiss with your father that would have Matthew concerned? Did Robert confess something to him?"

"Not exactly," Mary said. "It was more that Papa didn't prevent Matthew from hearing it."

"Oh, do stop talking in riddles," Violet said, sitting forward now.

"Very well," Mary said, and set down her teacup and saucer. "Papa has invested—how did Matthew put it?— _all_  of the Estate's liquid assets in a single enterprise."

Violet's eyebrows shot up. "All of your mother's fortune?"

"I assume that her money is included, yes."

Violet frowned. "This is not good."

"No."

"I can see why it would have Matthew concerned." Violet looked at Mary, narrowing her eyes. "How certain was he of this business?"

"He apparently heard Papa instructing Murray to do it, over Murray's objections."

"Oh, Robert," Violet muttered, looking away.

"You don't seem surprised," Mary observed.

Violet looked at her. "Something must be done."

"I agree," Mary said. "But what? Matthew is no longer here. I cannot confront Papa directly, and Mama has never shown the slightest interest in the running of the Estate."

"You've spoken to her?"

"No, but I don't expect that she would ever oppose Papa on a matter of business. I can hear her now, dismissing Matthew's concerns, saying that she trusts Papa and as Matthew is no longer the heir, he cannot possibly speak to such matters."

Violet looked at her. "I think you underestimate your mother."

Mary's eyebrows rose. "It was not so long ago that you could not bear to be in the same room with her above an hour," she said.

Violet smoothed her dress and looked towards the window. "Yes, well, we have had a fruitful partnership of late, and I have been greatly relieved that she has not turned out like your Grandmamma."

Mary lifted her teacup to her lips and hid a smirk.

Violet looked at her. "Tell your mother what you know. She is more than capable of handling your father."

Mary nodded. "I'll consider it."

"Don't wait too long," Violet cautioned, picking up a chocolate biscuit. "The opportunity for reinvestment might be limited."

Mary frowned and looked out the window as Violet formulated a plan of her own.

* * *

"I assume your grandmother sent you to me," Cora said as she walked beside Mary on the garden path. They were making their way repeatedly around the inside of the enclosing hedges while Norris stood beside Edward in the middle, preventing him from putting dirty remnants of ice and pebbles and mud and leaves and sticks in his mouth, and instead plying him with small treats from Mrs Patmore each time he began to cry, after the nanny had once again thwarted his attempts to eat his surroundings. The expression on Mary's face as she looked on made Cora smile to herself. Cora was confident that Mary would make a fine mother one day…as long as she had someone there to help with the less savoury aspects of the role.

"Yes," Mary replied, looking away from the spectacle that Edward had presented yet again. "Why does he keep doing that?"

"He's a baby, Mary," Cora said. "All babies do that at this age. You did. In fact, you managed to eat far worse things and I was beside myself with worry. But nothing came of it. Don't mind him. Norris will take good care of him."

Mary frowned but said nothing.

"I'll speak to your father," Cora said.

"Please don't mention Matthew. Approaching Papa isn't his idea; it's mine. I don't want there to be any bad blood between them."

"I won't, I promise."

"And don't delay any longer than absolutely necessary," Mary said.

"That is my affair," Cora said. "And I warn you, he will probably not inform me if he makes any changes, nor do I expect him to. Nothing may come of this."

"Or you might save our family from ruin," Mary said.

"That seems rather dramatic," Cora said.

"It is that serious, Mama, I hope you can see that."

"Of course I can see that," Cora said, frowning. "I just find it difficult to believe that your father would make such an unwise decision."

"So do I," Mary said. "For all we know, Matthew may have been wrong."

"But he's a lawyer," Cora said. "I doubt he misunderstood any part of that conversation with Murray. I am  _so_  relieved that Matthew is the Trustee now! If your father goes through with his plan…"

"Has he written to his old regiment?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Cora sighed.

Mary frowned. "Why are all men so eager to go to war?"

Cora stopped and turned to watch Edward toddle amongst the brown flowerbeds. "I wish I knew. Perhaps if we women did know why, we might have a chance of stopping these conflicts before they began."

Mary gave a bitter laugh. "I doubt it. I suspect our attempts would only drive them even further into it."

Cora chuckled. "You may be right."

* * *

"I know," Robert said, "that's why I agreed to make Matthew the Trustee." He shifted and pulled the covers over himself, getting comfortable. "Although I doubt anything will ever come of it."

"And I'm grateful," Cora said. "It gives me great peace of mind to know that a close member of the family, a man whom you trained, would be able to take care of us until Edward is of age. But that's what worries me: how can we be sure that all of this will still be here for Edward to inherit?"

"I've made arrangements," Robert said. "It's already been taken care of."

"But with so much uncertainty…and the war…I'm afraid, Robert. So many families whose seats seemed secure have lost them."

"Yes, to riotous living and dissolution," Robert said, his tone derisive. "No one can accuse me of exercising such poor judgement."

"Of course not," Cora said, cuddling closer to him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm only saying that our situation is not unique. We could be in just as precarious a position as the Earl of Essex, for example, and not know until it's too late."

"George? What of him? I haven't heard that anything is amiss with him." Robert frowned. "Although now that you mention it, I haven't seen him at the club for some time…"

"Oh, it hasn't been made official yet, of course, but his health has been declining and according to your mother, the family has been in poor financial straits for a while. They were misled in certain large investments. It's generally expected that they'll sell up Cassiobury Park within a few years. Although with the uncertainty of the war, it could be much sooner."

"My mother," Robert said, frowning. "How does she know all this?"

"Oh, you know her," Cora shrugged. "I would be surprised if there were anything going on amongst the nobility that she  _doesn't_  know about."

Robert gave a short laugh. " _Touché._  But I hardly think their situation bears any resemblance to our own."

"It may bear more than you think," Cora said wisely.

"How do you mean?"

"His wife is an American heiress whose money, by all accounts, saved the family seat. For a time, at least. It appears that it may not have been enough."

Robert digested this.

Cora did not smile, although she very much wanted to. Her mother-in-law's network of spies had been very useful indeed.

Robert reached up and ran a hand into Cora's hair, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead. His hand drifted down to rub her shoulder.

"Don't fret, my darling. I've everything well in hand."

She smiled adoringly at him. "I trust you, my love."

"Good," he said. "I won't let you down. Downton Abbey will still be standing strong for our grandchildren to inherit. You'll see."

She kissed him and he held her close for a long moment before twisting away to put out the light.

"Good night," she murmured, as he settled down beside her.

He smiled at her in the darkness. "Good night, my darling."

* * *

George Murray sat reviewing a document that had been delivered by one of his clerks a few minutes earlier. He grunted and struck out a sentence, scribbling an annoyed note in the margin. Such a financial instrument would never be acceptable to the Duke of Beaufort! What had Marshall been thinking—?

Mrs Winstead rapped on the door.

"Enter," George called, running his pen through another line of text.

"Lord Grantham wishes to speak with you, sir," she said.

He looked up with a frown. "Lord Grantham?"

"He's on the line," she said, nodding towards the telephone on his desk.

George closed the portfolio with a snap and set it down on his desk, quickly capping the pen. "Did he say what it was about?"

"No," she answered. "Only that it is an urgent matter."

"Thank you, Mrs Winstead," he said, reaching for the telephone as she went out. She drew the door closed behind herself. He pulled the telephone nearer and put the receiver to his ear. "George Murray speaking. How may I be of service, Lord Grantham?"

"Murray. I'm glad I've caught you. It's rather urgent."

"I've nothing pressing this morning; I'm at your disposal."

"Excellent, excellent. Listen, have you put in the order for the Grand Trunk shares yet?"

George looked at the folder that still lay on the corner of his desk and smiled slightly, then schooled his features. "Not yet, my lord. Our office is still in the process of drawing up the paperwork for you to sign. It took some time to acquire all the necessary information from the Canadians."

Lord Grantham made a distinct sound of relief. "I've decided to take your advice, Murray," he said.

George raised his eyebrows. Best not to comment on that, for fear of jeopardising the earl's change in perspective. "What advice are you referring to, my lord?"

"I'd like to put only half of the Estate's assets into the Grand Trunk. Have you heard of any other lucrative ventures?"

George raised his eyebrows. "I hear of schemes every day. Would you like me to investigate several and present you with some possibilities?"

"Yes," Lord Grantham said. "Perhaps something a bit lower-risk for one of the remaining quarters, and something with medium risk for the last quarter?"

George smiled. "A wise strategy, my lord. I will look into it personally."

"Excellent. Thank you. Shall we say two weeks from today?"

"I'll expect you then," George said evenly. "I will of course keep you informed if anything arises in the meantime."

"Very good. Thank you, Murray. Good day to you."

"Good day, my lord."

George set the receiver on its hook and sat back, regarding the telephone with a small smile. He was burning with curiosity about what could have prompted such a change in the earl's plans. George had heard no news about the Grand Trunk Railway and still thought it a poor investment, albeit one with a slight chance of becoming lucrative if the company's Board came through on its promises. Still, something must have influenced Lord Grantham.

George returned the telephone to its usual spot on his desk, then pushed his chair back and stood up, still smiling, and strode across to the door. Lieutenant Crawley was the most likely culprit. George had not thought him capable of exerting such influence over the earl, especially now that he was no longer the heir presumptive, but perhaps George had underestimated the young lawyer. He would do well to keep an eye on Matthew Crawley; he might yet turn out to be an asset.

He pulled open the door and looked out. "Call Marshall and James in," he said. "And pull the latest circular from Barclays, along with the dossiers on treasury bills and exchequer bonds. I want to be ready to move on this as quickly as possible."  _Before Lord Grantham has the opportunity to change his mind again._  "And put Lord Grantham down in my diary for the eleventh."

"Yes, sir," Mrs Winstead said. "Good news?"

George gave her a tight smile. "Better than we had before."

She nodded and rose from her desk as he turned back to his own. He let himself smile once more before sitting down and reaching for the Beaufort proposal, the sight of which drove the smile quickly from his face. There were a great many decisions to oversee and several hours still to go before he could break for lunch.

 


	19. Chapter 19

_19_

 

> _21 November 1916_
> 
> _My Darling Matthew,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. I've missed you desperately since the moment you left!_
> 
> _I helped Sybil begin to pack this afternoon. She leaves in two days. It was a bittersweet time, the end of an era, with all of us chicks having now flown the nest. I'm afraid we did more reminiscing than actual packing. If it weren't for Anna, who'd wisely insisted on accompanying me, we would have had nothing to show for it! Mama and Papa have taken Sybil's announcement with surprising equanimity, although perhaps I oughtn't be surprised, as it is Edward who occupies much of their conversation these days. (You're right: he is quite clever. I enjoy watching how easily he manipulates Papa into permitting him certain freedoms when Mama isn't looking.) But even if they were to object to Sybil's ambitions, it would be difficult for them to stand up against the combined forces of Granny and your mother, as you well know._
> 
> _Speaking of which, your mother came home exhausted again last night. She was at the hospital until very late yesterday, trying to make space in the second Day Room to accommodate all the extra bedding and supplies. Everything has been getting terribly backed up and keeping the conditions sanitary is paramount. I'm afraid that Downton's little cottage hospital has never been taxed to this extent, and Clarkson is rather more of a doctor than an administrator. To make matters worse, he spends half of each week travelling to other local hospitals to see patients. Your mother's intentions are good, I am sure, but she is not much of an administrator, either. She focuses too much on certain details, to the exclusion of the bigger picture. I plan to speak to Mrs Hannigan tomorrow about the laundry situation: it's a dreadful mess, with the loads only being taken once a week! Can you imagine? It might have served well enough before, but it's ridiculous to have an entire storage room set aside for merely keeping a mountain of dirty laundry! (Also, the room reeks. Someone really must see to that.)_
> 
> _I am sorry to have to report unhappy news, but there has been an unfortunate development regarding the late Mr Pamuk. Do not fear, it is not of a personal nature. Yesterday, Papa came to inform me that a Mrs Vera Bates—yes, Bates's wife; I had not even realised that he was married, had you?—had come to Downton bearing frightfully accurate gossip regarding myself and Mr Pamuk. She threatened poor Bates with the exposure of our family, demanding that he leave service at once and return with her, to frustrate his attempts to obtain a divorce from her..._

* * *

"It's a pack of lies!" Mr Bates's shout carried clearly through the grate to where Mrs Hughes stood eavesdropping with dawning horror.

"I assume that's loyalty and not ignorance," Vera Bates said, with a satisfied little sneer in her voice. "Because, you see, I heard that Lady Mary needed her maid to help her carry him. And yes, you guessed it, your precious Anna's gonna figure in the story, too. Not to worry, too much. It's not a criminal offense, is it? Just a social one."

Mrs Hughes heard a brief scurry of movement as the tea service clattered.

" _You bitch!_ " Mr Bates hissed.

"Please, be my guest," Vera Bates said, her voice low and triumphant, despite the slight waver in it. "Well then, you must excuse me while I run into town and have it photographed."

There was a heavy moment while Mrs Hughes strained to hear and then the tension in the room faded into a sullen silence.

"What do you want from me?" Mr Bates bit out, sounding weary.

"Firstly, you'll hand in your notice. Tonight. I'll put up at the pub in the village."

"What reason do I give?"

"You don't need a reason," Vera Bates answered. "Just tell them that you're going. And then tomorrow we head back to London. Stay in your mother's house for the time being, 'til we get ourselves sorted. And in case you're wondering, whatever my future plans may be, they will involve you."

The silence that stretched between them then was tight and ominous.

Mrs Hughes reached up and silently closed the grate, moving the sewing-box back in front to cover the opening. She walked away as her thoughts spun with worry and an intense dislike of that vicious woman. This was disturbing news and Mr Carson ought to be informed at once, given Lord Grantham's standing order to be kept appraised of any developments regarding the Turk. Mr Bates would not be forced to leave under such circumstances, not if Mrs Hughes had anything to say about it. He was far too valuable an addition to the household.

She sighed. She had thought all that awful business with the Turk was behind them, but now  _this_. Lady Mary's indiscretion continued to have far-reaching consequences, and two good people were being made to suffer unjustly for it. What awful timing! Mr Bates and Anna had been so happy two nights ago when they'd come to tell Mr Carson and herself that Lord Grantham had given his blessing for their engagement. The plan for Mr Bates to obtain a divorce had seemed so promising then, but now...

Frowning with worry, Mrs Hughes peered into Mr Carson's office, saw that he was not there, and turned towards the stairs.

A shriek came from the kitchen, quickly followed by the sound of a loud metal  _clang_.

"Daisy, you fool! Not my best pan!"

"But it's a  _rat_ , Mrs Patmore! I thought—"

"You thought! That's your problem, right there! Give me that!"

Mrs Hughes frowned and hurried towards the commotion.

* * *

Robert clenched his fists. "Bates, when you first came here, I fought to keep you! Everyone was against me! Everyone! From Her Ladyship to Carson! They thought I was mad! But I said to them, 'After all that we've been through together, Bates and I, I owe him my loyalty!'"

Bates stood stiffly, Robert's evening coat draped over his free arm. "I appreciate that, my lord, but—"

"But what?! But loyalty doesn't matter to you!"

Bates's voice trembled slightly. "It  _does_  matter, my lord."

"Not enough to make you change your mind! Not even enough to make you stay until I've found a replacement!" Robert snarled. He turned away and jerked at the buttons on his waistcoat, the bitterness of the betrayal filling him with righteous anger and making his eyes and throat sting.

"I can't!" The tremor in Bates's voice was stronger now, his tone desperate.

Robert spun, lashing out. "You won't take any more money off me!" he snapped. "You leave empty-handed!"

Bates's voice was quiet, but the grip on his cane was white-knuckled. "I don't want money, my lord."

Robert checked himself, felt like an ass, and lowered his voice.

"I'm sorry, Bates, that was a low shot. Of course, you can have whatever is owing to you."

Robert finished unbuttoning his waistcoat and he yanked it off as he stepped up to the bed.

"I thought we were friends, that's all," he bit out, hurling the waistcoat at the bed. "I thought we'd crossed the great divide successfully. Well, well. I've had my say. It's your life. But you've disappointed me, Bates. I cannot remember being more disappointed in any man."

Bates stood silently behind him as Robert began to work angrily at his cufflinks, feeling now a thousand miles away from the valet whom he had foolishly tried to think of as his friend. Maybe all the lofty ideals really were just a load of—

A knock sounded on the door and Robert twisted in surprise, lifting his head. "Yes, who is it?"

Bates had turned as well and he twitched slightly when Carson entered the room.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord," Carson said. "I was on my way to see you and I couldn't help overhearing." He gave Bates a disapproving glance. "I'm afraid that Mr Bates hasn't been entirely forthcoming with you."

Robert shot Bates a look of fury. "What's this about, Carson?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Carson," Bates said quietly. "I thought His Lordship deserved to hear it from my own lips first."

"I'll not accept your resignation, Mr Bates," Carson said. "Not yet, at any rate." He stepped forward and looked at Robert. "My lord, Mr Bates is being blackmailed into leaving Downton."

A sensation of ice water flooded over Robert's skin and his eyes shot to Bates. "What?"

"There's no reason to bother you with this matter, Your Lordship," Bates said, raising a hand. Unfortunately, Robert's evening coat hung on that arm and Bates had to awkwardly abort the movement to prevent it slipping to the floor. Carson gestured for the garment and Bates handed it over gratefully.

"On the contrary, there is every reason, Mr Bates," Carson said, and he took the evening coat over to the wardrobe to hang it up. "You will not be left alone to deal with this."

"But it is a  _private_  matter," Bates said stiffly.

"Out with it, man," Robert growled. "If it affects your employment, it's my concern."

Bates regarded him a moment, his mouth compressed into a flat line. "Very well, my lord. My wife came to see me this afternoon—"

"You're  _married?_ " Robert bellowed. "I just gave you my blessing to marry Anna, for God's sake! You must take me for a complete fool!"

"My lord," Carson said. "Please hear him out."

Robert subsided, feeling not that far from a complete fool, if he were honest.

Bates swallowed. "My wife, Vera, whom I have been estranged from for years and from whom I have begun pursuing a divorce, came to Downton with a tall tale about...your family, my lord, and threatened to sell the scurrilous rumour to the papers if I did not come with her at once. She's put up at the pub in the village. I'm to meet her tomorrow morning and then we'll go to London."

"The details of Mr Pamuk's assault on Lady Mary have reached the Highlands, my lord," Carson said heavily. Bates's head snapped around to look at Carson as the butler continued. "It's the gossip amongst the servants of Lord and Lady Flintshire, where Mrs Bates worked as a housemaid."

Robert sat down heavily on the bed. "So it's common knowledge, then?"

"It would appear that way, at least in certain circles," Carson said.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Bates murmured.

Robert stared at the floor a moment, fighting a rush of sadness and regret and anger at himself, and then he looked up at the two loyal men who remained before him.

Robert stood and took a step towards his valet. "I'm sorry, too, Bates. You've suffered on behalf of my family and I should never have spoken to you the way that I did."

Bates gave him a tight smile. "I will only recall how much it mattered to you, my lord."

Robert nodded, his own smile tight. He looked at Carson. "So what is the plan, then? I assume that you have one."

There was a flicker of amusement in Carson's eyes, followed by a glint of steel. "Of course, my lord, assuming Mr Bates has no objections."

* * *

 

 

> _...after that, Papa assures me, Mrs Bates will be packed off without any further ceremony. Bates is confident that he can find proof of her adultery and then he'll be able to obtain the decree nisi and come back to Downton. We can only hope that we will hear nothing further from that woman. Anna tells me that Bates is planning to offer his wife the whole of his inheritance just to be rid of her. It seems too generous an offer by far, but who am I to judge? If such an obstacle had been between us, what might we have been prepared to sacrifice? My heart goes out to dear Anna in all of this, and I can only hope that she and Bates may yet still find some happiness._
> 
> _I am so sorry to have to burden you with this, but Papa and I agreed that you ought to hear it from me, so that the unhappy news will not reach you first in some other way. Please rest assured that I am well and will not let the renewed threat of exposure depress my spirits. Although I sometimes fear that Mr Pamuk's actions will never cease to haunt us, there is little material damage that the story can do me now. Even if Mrs Bates finds someone willing to publish her sordid little tale, it will soon be forgotten. I say this with only the deepest affection, darling, but marriage to a "mere" country solicitor has done far more practical damage to my position in Society than idle gossip now ever could. How ironic that your being middle class should be such an asset to us. Let us celebrate the freedom that it affords and fly cheerfully in the face of all those old gossipmongers!_
> 
> _After all:_
> 
> _'For always the spirit deep in my own heart was fearful_  
>  _that some one of mortal men would come my way and deceive me_  
>  _with words. For there are many who scheme for wicked advantage...'_
> 
> _and I look forward to your return:_
> 
> _'As when the land appears welcome to men who are swimming,_  
>  _after Poseidon has smashed their strong-built ship on the open_  
>  _water, pounding it with the weight of wind and the heavy_  
>  _seas, and only a few escape the grey water landward_  
>  _by swimming, with a thick scurf of salt coated upon them,_  
>  _and gladly they set foot on the shore, escaping the evil...'_
> 
> _I smile as I write this, for I know that you will see what comes next._
> 
> _Please tell me what you are reading, so that I may read it with you. I pray for your safe return every day. I hope you are keeping my good-luck charm close by. Under his aegis, I am with you in spirit._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Mary_
> 
> _(p.s. – I found your gift! I will be sure to wear it when I see you next and I eagerly await the moment when you first see me in it, for I can easily imagine your response and the thought of it makes me smile.)_

* * *

 

 

> _11 December 1916_
> 
> _My dear S.B.,_
> 
> _The sunset this evening was just beautiful and the guns were quieter then, for a short while at least. I'm sitting in a farmhouse kitchen right now, enjoying the lingering smells of fresh-baked bread and the savoury soup that we had for a late supper. Our elderly hosts, Marie and Christophe, have been very gracious, although I think I provided them with a source of amusement when I tried to carry on a conversation about one of their volumes of French poetry. I may be able to speak French passably well, but I fear that my education on its finer points cannot compare to yours. Christophe assured me that my accent is not the worst he's heard, but I took that to mean that it's also not the best, either. That's all right: his English is worse._
> 
> _The men are settled in the barn for the night, glad to be sleeping on a soft bed with a roof over their heads and the promise of a shave in the morning. It's the beginning of our rest period. We are in the lap of luxury, Davis and I, as we have been given a bedroom. And to have the warmth of a fire on my back! It's glorious! How humble these surroundings are compared to Downton, but how they feel like a castle compared to the trenches!_
> 
> _You'll never guess who I ran across last week. It was Thomas, your father's former first footman! He was looking as well as could be expected. He's Corporal Barrow now, working in the Medical Corps. I saw him again yesterday, when we got to the reserve line, in the wee hours of the morning. He invited me into his dugout for tea. He's a resourceful chap. I don't know how he managed it, but he had condensed milk and sugar to boot! We talked of Downton and family news, of course. O'Brien has been keeping him informed and he has heard about Sybil's nursing career, Harold's birth, and Edith's insistence on learning how to drive despite being pregnant again. We mused that it won't be long before you women take over the world! It was a strange moment to be sitting in that hole, chuckling about the goings-on at home as if none of the madness were outside. I felt remarkably at ease with him. Here, it doesn't matter that I was once the heir and he was once a footman._
> 
> _You shouldn't underestimate Edward, he's_

* * *

The sound of screams and shouting from the distant barn suddenly filled the air and Matthew jerked his head up. Davis appeared in the darkened doorway on the far side of the room, pulling on his tunic, his eyes wide as he moved quickly to button it up. Matthew pushed back his kitchen chair with a loud scrape, careful not to upend it into the fireplace, and leapt to his feet. The two men were racing to the front door as they heard Marie's shriek of " _Au feu!_ " come from the couple's bedroom.

Matthew ran across the lawn in the pale moonlight, the sharp cold biting at his exposed skin. His heart pounded at the sight of the orange, flickering lights inside the barn and the silhouetted figures of his men as they shouted and rushed to contain the blaze.

"Bonham! Lineker! Water!" Sergeant Stevens bellowed, and the two men came charging out of the barn, headed in the direction of the nearby well. Matthew and Davis changed course to help them, and soon the four men were carrying buckets and pails towards the barn. Behind them, Marie and Christophe came running towards the barn as quickly as they could manage, their nightclothes flapping about their legs.

One of the near columns inside the barn was licked with crawling, crackling flames, and men were shouting and yanking at clumps of burning hay, dropping them into the centre of the dirt floor and putting out the flames with hastily-flapping bedrolls and greatcoats, as most of the soldiers were only in socks or were barefoot.

After a couple of trips to the well, the impromptu fire brigade managed to douse the flames on the support column: only one area of the barn had caught. Everyone stood breathing heavily, soot smudged on their faces, as they looked around, making sure that there were no more open flames. The dirt and hay were blackened and sopping, and in the middle of the mess lay Private Sidney, who was moaning softly.

"What happened?" Matthew demanded.

"Left a burning fag," Sergeant Stevens growled, kicking at a small blackened stub near his boot. "Damn fool."

"I'm sorry, sir," Sidney said, catching his breath and wincing as he wiped awkwardly at his face with one hand. His cheeks were blackened with soot and tear-tracks ran down in dirty lines that had been smeared when he'd tried to brush the tears away. Matthew dropped his bucket and crouched down beside the young soldier. The boy's right arm was red and angry, bits of his uniform cloth stuck against the blistered skin, and his hand was a dreadful mess. Sidney moaned.

"Sidney," Matthew muttered sympathetically, half-wincing. He reached out but stopped before he touched the boy's wounds. "We'll need to get this taken care of right away. Davis?"

"Sir?" Davis asked, dropping his own pail and stepping up beside Matthew.

"Can you scare up salve and a wrapping for this, just enough to last him the trip?"

"Of course, sir," Davis said, and jogged off in the direction of the farmhouse.

Matthew reached out and took Sidney's other hand and elbow, gently lifting the young man to his feet. Two of the other men quickly moved in to help steady him.

"I'll take him," Sergeant Stevens said, stepping forward.

"No, I will," Matthew said, looking around. "You see to getting this barn cleaned up and evaluating the damage. We'll need to compensate our hosts. Get the place sorted out and make sure the men rest. If I'm not back by dawn, lead the marching and the training on the new gas defences. I'll be back for inspection by mid-morning."

"Yes, sir."

Marie appeared with strips of cloth and ointment. She and Sergeant Stevens quickly set about wrapping Sidney's arm while he gritted his teeth and sucked in sharp breaths. There was an agonizingly slow process as Anderson and Smith joined Matthew in helping Sidney into his trousers, boots, and greatcoat.

Davis appeared at Matthew's side with travelling clothes, and their eyes met. Davis had known, without being told, that Matthew would be the one to go, and Matthew could only think for the thousandth time how grateful he was for Davis. The soldier-servant was a man of sense and efficiency and he  _understood_.

Matthew wrapped the muffler around his neck and pulled on his gloves, holding his arms out for Davis to help him into the greatcoat. When that was finished, Davis handed Matthew his cap and sack.

"Water, compass, rations, and more dressings, if you need it," Davis said quietly.

Matthew gave him a weary smile. "Thank you, Davis."

Anderson and Smith were gathering up Sidney's belongings and stuffing them into his pack. When they finished, Matthew accepted it from them with a nod of thanks and slung it over his shoulder.

Sidney was finally ready with his arm secured in a sling, so the men parted to let them through and he and Matthew walked out of the barn.

"Hoping it's a Blighty, eh?" Anderson joked as they passed by and Sidney smiled weakly.

 _There's always a silver lining_ , Matthew thought sourly. To be in such a place that the prospect of a lifelong debilitation would be a source of hope—

"We'll have this barn back to rights by tomorrow, sir," Lineker said, and a chorus of agreement rose up around him.

Matthew was certain that he wouldn't find anything significantly amiss in the morning's inspection, either, and he smiled at Lineker as he put on his cap. "I know you will," he said, pausing as he looked back at them. Then he raised an eyebrow. "So why are you sorry lot just standing there? Get to work!"

And the men, in all their weary, half-dressed, and soot-blackened state, laughed and immediately started moving.

Satisfied, Matthew gave Sidney a nod and they set off in the direction of the front line, some fifteen miles away. The casualty clearing station lay roughly between their billet and the reserve line. It would be a two-hour trek, at least, to reach it.

When they stepped up on to the road a few minutes later, Matthew stuffed his hands deep into his pockets to warm them and settled into a regular stride, checking to make sure that Sidney was matching it. Matthew was piqued at being unable to finish his letter to Mary, but it would have to wait another day. Perhaps he'd have a chance to write again tomorrow. He could only hope that they didn't receive orders that would cut their rest time short again.

He glanced at Sidney to see how he was getting on. The young private had set his jaw and was walking with his eyes fixed forward. Matthew nodded and kept on.

They had walked in silence for nearly an hour when Sidney gave a sharp gasp and stumbled. Matthew immediately reached out to steady him, careful not to touch his arm.

"I'm sorry, sir," Sidney said through gritted teeth. "I'm a poor excuse for a soldier."

"None of that, private," Matthew said. "You're tired. We all are. I'm just sorry that you're suffering for it now."

"Thank you for walking with me, sir."

"Of course."

They went another minute in silence and then Sidney said, his voice strained, "Do you think we might talk, sir? Only, I think it'll help keep me mind off this buggered arm."

"Certainly." Matthew straightened and hefted Sidney's pack. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sidney said. "Anything would do."

Matthew thought a moment. "I had been writing a letter to my wife this evening. Do you have a girl back home?"

"No," Sidney said, and his voice was so young. "Not yet."

Matthew swallowed and nodded, wondering what the future held for Sidney.

"If I may, sir, how did you meet her?"

"My wife?" Matthew chuckled. "I made a right fool of myself."

Sidney gave a soft laugh, although it sounded strained, and then he hissed and readjusted his arm. Matthew glanced at him, but Sidney only gave him a thin smile. "That sounds like a story worth telling...if you don't mind me prying, of course, sir."

"Not at all," Matthew said, smiling. "I would be glad for the distraction." He walked a few steps, collecting his thoughts. "Well, her father had no sons and I was his nearest relation."

"Ah," Sidney said. "And she saw you as a Mr Collins?"

Matthew laughed and glanced at him. "I hadn't taken you for reader of Jane Austen, Private Sidney."

"Aye, well, there's more to me than a mere country lad," Sidney said, trying to grin, but the lines of pain remained on his face.

Matthew nodded, keeping a cheerful tone in his voice. "I stand corrected. Well, I was a bit worse than Mr Collins, because I made some pompous speech about not wanting any of the unfortunate daughters to be pushed at me...and she overheard it."

Sidney gave a short laugh.

"No, it gets worse," Matthew said, warming to his topic and putting a renewed energy into his step. "She is stunning and the moment I saw her I forgot why I had even been objecting. I forgot basically everything, including my manners and the fact that my mouth was still open, and I stood there doing a perfect impression of a dead fish, as she tells it. From then on, I found myself trying to win  _her_  affections, rather than the reverse."

Sidney was chuckling now. Hissing and wincing as well, but chuckling. Matthew felt his own spirits lightening and he grinned.

"How did you convince her to forgive you?" Sidney asked.

"By apologising...eventually."

Sidney gave him a knowing smile.

Matthew let out a quiet sigh, his breath a pale cloud in the night air, and he hunched his shoulders against the cold. "I never knew I could love someone as much as I love her."

"Thank you, sir," Sidney said quietly. "It gives me something to look forward to."

Matthew was silent, walking beside him. He hoped Sidney's arm wasn't as bad as it had looked. To go back home a cripple, lessened by war and forever struggling to eke out a living when it was a difficult task even for the able-bodied—and what woman would want to wed herself to a man who couldn't provide for his family?

Revulsion rose in Matthew at the prospect.  _Please, Lord_ , he thought.  _Let me make it through this...but if that's not to be, just let it be a bullet that kills me cleanly. Please._

"Do you think this might be a Blighty, sir?" Sidney asked, a slight quaver in his voice. "I've only been out here a few months. I don't want to go back with only a story of me own foolishness to tell. Where's the honour in that?"

Matthew frowned. Where was the honour in any of this? Skulking in muddy holes in the ground, cowards sniping at any poor bloke who just wanted to stand up to his full height for once, and tens of thousands dead, with almost nothing to show for it. It was next to impossible to hate or fight when one was cold and wet, and sometimes he wondered what they were fighting for. There were moments when he had forgotten...but then he had roused himself so that he could rally his men, and it was in those moments that he decided that what he was fighting for was to get as many of his men as possible through this damned war, and to bolster their spirits as they stood together against the elements and, all too often, the seeming idiocy of those in command.

"The honour is in serving alongside each other, Private, and you've done that. You might continue to do it yet. Don't give up hope. Chin up."

"I won't, sir. I don't want to leave me mates yet."

"Good man."

Matthew recalled the part of the conversation with Thomas that he hadn't shared with Mary. It had gone in a very different direction from Sidney's brave resolve.

 _I'm curious, sir,_  Thomas had asked. _Do you think I could ever get a transfer back to the hospital, seeing as it's war work?_

 _Well, you'd have to be sent home from the front first_ , Matthew had replied. _And then you might have to pull a few strings._

He'd answered Thomas as best he could, of course, although he'd been disappointed in the line of questioning itself. But how could he fault the man? Matthew understood the desperate desire to escape from this hell only too well. Was he really any better than Thomas? He'd had the same thought himself countless times, even if he'd never voiced it aloud. Perhaps there was something to be admired in Thomas's honesty.

A freezing gust of wind blew over them and made Matthew shiver and dig himself deeper into his greatcoat. This winter was much colder than the last two had been, and they were still miles away from any hope of warmth. There was nothing for it but to keep going.

They trudged on, their boots crunching on the frost-covered ground.

* * *

 

 

> _You shouldn't underestimate Edward, he's got a certain look in his eye. I don't think he misses a thing and he's not above a bit of ruthlessness when it comes to getting his way. He reminds me of his eldest sister in that respect. Please give him my love and tell him what a garçon malin he is. I shall find him a book when I next visit Paris. Perhaps you can begin early with his lessons en français by reading it to him. What a lovely thought._
> 
> _I am proud of Sybil and I am proud of you! You are right about what the hospital needs, I think. Mother told me that Major Clarkson was making noises about taking on a manager to help with the running of things. It is a post for which you would be ideally suited: you should throw your hat in the ring. At the very least, it will keep Mother from taking over the place when the good doctor isn't looking._
> 
> _I'm terribly sorry to hear about Bates's wife. Anna had been practically glowing when I saw her last! I only hope he will find the proof quickly. Robert's plan seems a sound one, but for one detail: Bates ought not to give his wife a farthing, except perhaps a living allowance while they are together. If a judge catches a whiff of bribery about the affair, it could cast doubt on the validity of the proof of adultery, and such a development would necessarily negate the decree nisi. I am not an expert in such matters, however, so Bates should consult his own lawyer before proceeding with any course of action. My words should not be cited in any argument concerning his case._
> 
> _As upsetting as Bates's situation is, I am far more concerned about the fact that such intimate information is being circulated amongst complete strangers in the wilds of Scotland. Certainly the servants speak to one another, but I cannot be comfortable knowing that someone in their ranks has so little respect or care for you and your family. I will never rest easy knowing that the walls have ears and those ears are not friendly._
> 
> _I am grateful that my position can afford you a certain peace of mind. Know, however, darling, that you will always be a lady of the highest quality, no matter what anyone says of you, for you are a daughter of the King. Since you asked what I have been reading: Matt. x:28-31. It seems a fitting comfort for us both._
> 
> _I confess that identifying your quotation took me the better part of two days (although much of it was spent leading a tedious succession of carrying parties, so I don't have a proper excuse), but when I landed upon it, I laughed aloud. Suffice it to say that my men looked at me as though I were mad. When I recalled the next lines, I felt a most unmanly urge to burst into tears. You are without compare, darling:_
> 
> _'...so welcome was her husband to her as she looked upon him,_  
>  _and she could not let him go from the embrace of her white arms.'_
> 
> _Oh, how lovely you are! It has been a balm having the time to write you such a long letter. I do not know when I will next have the chance, but your little dog is with me always. He is watching over my letter-writing even now._
> 
> _Your loving husband,_
> 
> _Matthew_
> 
> _(p.s. – I dreamed of you last night after I finished this letter. Oh, how bittersweet a memory! I cannot wait until I next hold you in my arms. My body aches for want of you.)_

* * *

 

 

> _15 January 1917_
> 
> _Dear Matthew,_
> 
> _It was so lovely to read such a long letter from you! I have taken it out and read it several times, imagining your smiles and the thought of you safe and whole in a rustic farmhouse, eating a warm meal and sleeping in a proper bed. I dreamt of meeting you there last night, although I know you must be elsewhere by now._
> 
> _Granny is still rather put out about the whole Lloyd George business. She calls him "a misguided Robin Hood" and thinks he'll drive the country to ruin. I reminded her that there's a war on, which ought to keep him occupied for a while, but nothing will dissuade her from her disgust with Liberal politicians. Papa shares her opinion and is rather sour about it, but I think he is more put out by his colonelcy being only a ceremonial post. I was quite relieved to hear that it is, but I can imagine how humiliating it must be to discover oneself relegated to a mere mascot._
> 
> _We were all happy to hear news of Thomas from you! O'Brien told Mama just this morning that she had received a letter from him. He has been sent back from the front with a terrible wound in his hand. He's being treated in a London hospital, she says, and will never have full use of that hand again. It's a strange thing, to feel both happy that he's safely back in England and sad about his injury, in equal measure. I only hope that he will recover soon. Whenever I hear of such stories, I always think of you and pray for your safe return._
> 
> _In happier news, Bates has come back! Anna tells me he has found the proof he needs and he's planning to petition the court soon. She was able to get word to him not to give his wife any money in return for agreeing to the divorce. Both Anna and Bates thank you for your advice and are confident that they will succeed in one day being wed. I fear, however, that this is not the last that we will hear of Mrs Bates. Apparently she went into a rage as Bates was leaving London and she hit him with a poker. He has an awful wound on his face. She renewed her threat to publish the story about me and she threatened also to include poor Anna in the tale. I feel awful for having involved Anna! Papa is unwavering in his support for all of us, however, and I could not be prouder of him. Mrs Bates's power is limited, Mama and Granny assure me, if the whole family stands by us with their heads held high. We shall see. As everyone encouraged me, I was reminded of who stood by me most fiercely when this was first revealed. It was you, my darling, and I am ever so grateful._
> 
> _Sybil's training is nearly complete and she expects to begin work at the hospital soon. Your mother beams and mine frowns at the prospect, but I think it will be good for Sybil and she will do very well at it. Speaking of which, your mother and Major Clarkson have been pleased with the new laundry schedule that I devised and have asked me to look into the meal coordination. It is a daunting task, but I confess to feeling energised about it! Anything to make me feel useful during these strange times._
> 
> _I look forward to reading your book to Edward. I am not sure he will sit still long enough to listen to the whole of it, but I will certainly try. He wants to talk more than listen at present. Perhaps you can bring it with you when you next come home, and you can read it to him. I think he would like that a great deal._
> 
> _Speaking of your next visit home, your mother promises to send you back with several tins of sweetened condensed milk and a full tin of sugar, so that you can entertain properly. Mrs Bird was affronted at the idea that you're obliged to drink your tea black. I couldn't bear to tell her that you consider hot tea itself to be a treat, but rest assured that you shall be set up like the King and all his china at the first opportunity._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Mary_
> 
> _(p.s. – I have asked Anna not to change out your pillowcase until you come home again because I have discovered that I find its scent comforting. Perhaps with that in mind you will protest less when I next ask you to sleep under extra blankets...and somewhat less clothed.)_

* * *

_Author's Notes_

I have drawn on I.L. (Dick) Read's  _Of Those We Loved_  for some aspects of this chapter: it's a fascinating, in-depth memoir of a British infantryman in the war, beautifully illustrated by the author. If you're curious about getting a full picture of the enlisted soldier's experience, I highly recommend it!

Excerpts taken from Richmond Lattimore's  _The Odyssey of Homer_ , Book 23, lines 215-217, and lines 233-240, which I found in Richard Buxton's excellent  _The Complete World of Greek Mythology_  (2012).


	20. Chapter 20

_20_

**Early April 1917**

Mary stepped out on to the flagstones in front of Crawley House, pulling on her gloves. The morning was unseasonably chilly and gusts of wind whipped at her hair, so she tugged the collar of her coat up around her neck and tucked her scarf in securely.

"Have a good day, my lady," Molesley called, as she stepped through the gate and latched it.

"Thank you, Molesley. You as well."

"Lunch, as usual?"

"Yes, and please tell Mrs Bird to expect Major Clarkson today as well. I believe Mrs Crawley had intended to mention it, but with everything that happened last night…" Mary smiled.

"Of course, my lady. I'll do that at once." Molesley returned her smile as he closed the door. Mary straightened her shoulders and set off in the direction of the hospital.

"Lady Mary," Mr Peterson said, nodding to her as she passed his milk cart. "Chilly morning, eh?"

"Yes, but a fine day," she replied, glancing up at the bright blue sky overhead. Grey clouds floated here and there, but the emerging sun promised a cheerful, if brisk, walk home.

"That it is," the old man grinned. "A fine day, indeed."

Mary walked on, wondering how the day was turning out for Matthew. He had survived a third winter at the front, but she worried for his spirits. The Somme offensive had not gone well. The Americans had finally decided to enter the war, though. Perhaps they could help bring an end to this awful, interminable conflict. Enough men had died, surely. Was it too much to hope that her husband might come home by the end of the year? This continual state of uncertainty, waiting for their life together to truly begin, was so very wearying to the soul.

She turned into the churchyard and walked the familiar path across to the hospital. Her eyes glanced over her grandfather's gravestone and she resisted the usual sense of foreboding at the sight. Making her way across to the opposite gate and letting herself out, she paused briefly as a young woman rode past on a bicycle.

The Downton cottage hospital's stone archway stood a short distance away and Mary watched a pair of weary-looking nurses emerge as she crossed the road. Four more young women dressed in nurses' uniforms and coats were approaching to begin their shifts, Sybil among them. Mary frowned. Where was Branson? Why was Sybil walking again?

Sybil caught her eye and smiled and Mary returned it, but then Mary narrowed her eyes and frowned in the direction of Downton Abbey, questioning. Sybil rolled her eyes. They met up several seconds later and Sybil hung back, letting her companions walk ahead of them.

"I'll have you know that I rode in the car to Mrs Weston's," Sybil said. "Margaret invited me to breakfast with them this morning."

"I didn't say anything," Mary said.

Sybil smiled. "You didn't have to."

"Neither did you."

Sybil just shook her head, still smiling, and pulled open the door, allowing Mary to go ahead of her.

"How are Mama and Papa and Edward this morning?" Mary asked.

Sybil shrugged. "Well. Edward has become obsessed with Old Richie."

Mary chuckled as they walked down the hall. "Has Papa let him ride yet?"

"He wanted to yesterday, but Mama wouldn't allow it. Not until he's three."

"I was allowed to ride Richie when I was only two," Mary said.

"Two-and-a-half, Mama said," Sybil corrected. "Papa tried that argument, too. Mama also insisted that you were far more coordinated as a two-year-old than Edward is."

"Well, I was," Mary replied, removing her hat and gloves.

"How would you know that?"

"Sybil," Mary said, arching an eyebrow reproachfully as they rounded a corner. "My earliest memory is of riding that pony. I wasn't yet three. Something spooked him and he broke away from Papa and jumped the paddock fence and I didn't lose my seat."

Sybil shrugged, unbuttoning her coat as they entered Mary's small office. "I never understood your preoccupation with horses."

"Yes, well, it's of no use to me now, is it?" Mary asked, laying down her handbag, gloves, and hat on the shelf by the door. She unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the coat-tree beside Sybil's.

"Dear," Sybil said, putting her hands on Mary's upper arms when Mary turned to face her. "I'm so sorry."

Mary looked down and nodded. It was well known by now that most of the cavalry horses had either died in battle or had been driven so hard and fed so poorly that very few were still alive this far into the war. Horses were a relic of wars past, powerless against the German machine-gunners who had laid waste to so many—

Mary broke away, trying not to be rough with Sybil, and turned to go behind her desk. Sybil stood and watched her in silence.

"Your shift starts in four minutes," Mary said, looking at the stack of fresh bills and her notes from yesterday, still laid out neatly on the desk.

"I know."

Mary picked up a bill and frowned at it. "I thought I asked Mrs Saunders for two hundred rolls, not one hundred." She closed her eyes and exhaled. Already the day seemed prepared to try her patience.

"You're doing a good job, Mary," Sybil said quietly. "Major Clarkson said so only yesterday."

Mary opened her eyes. "He did?"

"Yes," Sybil said with a small smile. "He was very pleased with the plans and stores, and he went into the ward muttering, 'Good, good.'"

"Really?" Mary let a tentative smile spread across her face.

"Oh, my dear," Sybil said. "You know how much work there is."

"Yes." Mary looked down. It was difficult to smile when one recalled the reason why an earl's daughter had taken work at the hospital. She looked up at Sybil. Or rather, why two of them had.

"I've got to go," Sybil said, gesturing towards the hall.

"Oh good, you're here," Sister Brodrick said, appearing in the doorway. "Nurse Crawley, would you see to Lt. Courtenay? He needs his dressing changed, and a proper bath. You're in the Shore Room today."

"Yes, Sister," Sybil said, moving quickly past the older nurse.

"Sister Brodrick," Mary said with a nod.

"Lady Mary. Good morning to you." Sister Brodrick returned the nod and then looked aside as something in the hallway caught her attention. "Cpl. Barrow, may I have a word?"

Mary heard Thomas's stiff but polite assent and Sister Brodick strode off in his direction, instructing him to assist Sybil with Lt. Courtenay's bath.

Mary sat down at the small desk and sorted the bills by their due and then by the service listed. Laundry, raw produce, and assembled meals were coordinated amongst all the surrounding farms and families, in addition to shipments that came by train. Deliveries came throughout the day, every day, and all those bills were collected on Thursdays. Medical supplies usually arrived by train on Fridays and store assessment and re-ordering was done on Mondays. Mary conducted both the assessment and the distribution of the materials to each ward closet, under the direction of Sister Brodrick or Isobel. The two older women tended to contradict one another from time to time and as Major Clarkson had no interest in mediating between them, the task often fell to Mary. She'd had to develop some acumen in negotiation and the judicious withholding of information. Peace had reigned, of late. Thankfully, there was to be no opportunity for conflict this morning: Isobel had been out late into the night assisting with the birth of twins at Windmill Farm and did not expect to be in until after lunch today.

For all that the two senior nurses at the hospital disagreed over, there were at least three times as many things that they agreed upon, and Mary was simply grateful that Downton's cottage hospital should have the benefit of two such experienced women.

Mary frowned and picked up a receipt that she didn't recognise. Ah: they'd had a plumber in on Tuesday, yes. He must have left his bill after she'd gone home yesterday afternoon. Having only two bathrooms in the place seemed the strangest oversight on her grandfather's—and father's—part. When the toilet in one had backed up on Monday, it had created all manner of unpleasantness. There was a developing plan to install a two-seated bog in the back corner of the garden, but Mary was certain that her grandmother would have something to say about that before long.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead, then pulled open a drawer and drew out the hospital's cheque book before beginning to tally all the bills laid out before her. She was confident that they would all would be paid, as usual, but their prioritisation depended upon cash flow. Deposits were fortnightly, but if any unexpected costs arose in the interim, Mary would have to go to her father for advances. He never explicitly objected to her requests for additional funds, but she could not help feeling a subtle sense of disapproval, as if the overruns were somehow her fault.

She lifted her chin. Matthew had been delighted when he'd learned of the role she'd taken on at the hospital. It had been clear to her that someone needed to step in: the medical staff were busy with the flood of soldiers that had arrived in the wake of the Somme offensive. Major Clarkson, who did not much relish administrative work even at the best of times, was not around frequently enough to deal with all the farmwives and shopkeepers who had begun to murmur about the hospital not paying its bills in a timely fashion. Of course it was everyone's job to pull together and support the men, but unpaid work always left a poor taste in people's mouths. They could hardly be blamed for it. Adding to the usual tensions were rumours that rationing would be coming soon. No one wanted to be left at a disadvantage, unable to pay for whatever little they could obtain.

Mary had quietly begun negotiating with the local women to stagger which days dirty laundry was retrieved and freshly-laundered linens were delivered, and to send work farther afield as additional help became necessary. When the organisation of that effort was a success, Major Clarkson had agreed to hold off on his plan to request someone who could assist with the hospital's business concerns. Expanding Mary's role on a trial basis had been Isobel's idea and now Mary was, several months later, effectively responsible for all of the non-medical business of the hospital.

On some days it was overwhelming, but on most days it left her feeling strangely satisfied, if rather tired. Sometimes, when she tried to contemplate how she had filled her days before, she wondered how she had ever been content to merely spend her hours reading books and writing letters and fitting clothes. She felt useful now. The war had given her a sense of purpose and it was a comfort to know that she was helping in some direct way rather than merely watching from the sidelines. Although Matthew was hundreds of miles away, it gave her a daily sense that she was standing alongside him, even if just in spirit.

It was small comfort.

She frowned and continued her tallying, then finally sat back with a sigh. She suspected that another visit to her father would be required this month, but it could not be helped.

She set to the task of writing out the dozens of cheques for this month's accounts.

* * *

"It's a travesty," Isobel said, her lips pressed into a thin line as she set down her teacup on the dining room table, after Molesley had cleared away her place. "We're sending these men home to be cared for by family members who are ill-equipped to handle them, or forcing the worst cases to travel all the way to Farley Hall, so far away that it's difficult for their families to visit them."

Major Clarkson looked uncomfortable. "I don't see what there is to do about it," he said. "We can't turn away those who are gravely wounded."

"I just fear for the men," Isobel responded. She glanced at Mary before fixing her gaze on the doctor again. "Their bodies may be on the mend, but their minds and spirits are still shattered. They need time to rest and recover, to undergo the appropriate rehabilitative therapies."

"Which we are also not equipped to handle, if we're honest," Major Clarkson replied, leaning back in his chair, weariness in his expression. "I can set a bone or sew up a wound, but..." he sighed. "What can I offer a man suffering from shell shock? It is clear Lt. Courtenay is still in need of  _something_ , but it is most likely that simple fresh air and sunshine and some honest labour will work their regenerative effects in time."

"What 'honest labour' is there for him to do now?" Mary asked. "Sybil tells me that he is the heir to his father's estate. Even if he were not blinded, he would be expected to live in leisure and to occupy himself with shooting and hunting and the like, none of which he is able to do any longer. Enforced idleness at home will only drive him into a deeper depression."

"He cannot continue to occupy a bed here when there are wounded soldiers freezing or sweating under canvas," Major Clarkson said sharply, then grimaced. "The field conditions are appalling."

"I don't doubt it," Isobel replied with a frown, as she lifted her teacup to her lips. She took a sip and slowly set the cup down on the saucer again. "But Lt. Courtenay must be taught how to manage now, and who will do it if we do not?" She gave Mary a reproachful look. "He may not be able to shoot or hunt, but there are many things he is still perfectly capable of doing as a landlord and a farmer."

"He cannot even make his way to the bathroom unaided," Mary said.

"Cpl. Barrow and Sybil have been working with him on that," Isobel replied. "I don't doubt that he'll be able to manage it by the end of the week."

Mary took a sip of her tea. She could easily imagine the life of a crippled lord, effectively excluded from Society, dependent on his servants for the smallest necessities of daily life. What hope had he of marriage or a family? None; she could see it. What lay before this young man was only the prospect of a long and lonely existence, even in the best of circumstances. His family would do everything in their power to shunt him aside. It was a sad situation but it was not her concern, nor was there anything in her power that she could do to improve his lot. It would not do to dwell on it. Major Clarkson was right, as difficult a truth as that was to face. Why did Isobel continue to raise the issue?

Major Clarkson put on a polite smile and sat forward. "Well, thank you for lunch." His smile warmed when he looked at Isobel and she smiled back. "It feels a luxury, to take an hour for a quiet meal! But I must be getting back." He pushed out his chair and rose.

"Of course," Isobel said, allowing Molesley to pull out her chair, and standing. "I'll come with you. I want to make sure the preparations for tomorrow's arrivals are coming along." She looked at Mary, who was just then getting to her feet. "Will you be joining us?"

"I've left things in order for the day," Mary said. "I'm going to visit Mama."

"Please give Lady Grantham my regards," Major Clarkson said. "Her note was much appreciated. I am grateful that she's volunteered to host another benefit concert. The last one was a great success, with so many attendees! There's no other hall to equal it in the county, I'm sure of it."

"I will," Mary said with a smile.

Major Clarkson gave her a nod and stepped out, Molesley on his heels. Isobel made to follow the men and then paused and glanced back at Mary with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"What is it?" Mary asked.

An odd little smile rose on Isobel's lips. "There  _is_  no other hall to equal Downton Abbey's, is there?" she said, raising her eyebrows with a significant look. "All of that room..."

Mary frowned, not following the unspoken implication, and then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. "No," she breathed. "They would never allow it."

Isobel's smile dropped away. "Never?"

Mary could easily imagine the disruption that a houseful of convalescing soldiers would cause in the precisely-ordered world of Downton Abbey and she shook her head. "I do not think it likely."

The steely expression that came into Isobel's eyes was familiar to Mary now and Mary would have smiled at the sight of it if not for the conflict that she was sure would ensue if Isobel pursued this course.

"And you should not, either," Mary added quickly.

"We'll see," Isobel said, and strode out.

Mary sighed and frowned after her. Mama was not going to be happy about this, but what choice did they have?

* * *

Isobel walked back from the post office the following morning in something of a foul mood, still rather put out that Mary hadn't asked Cousin Cora about the possibility of converting Downton Abbey into a convalescent home. Supper at Crawley House the previous evening had been tense, as Mary had remained staunch in her belief that such a plan would not be accepted by her parents and would only create unnecessary tension between the hospital and the house. The Grantham Estate was shouldering the entire increased financial burden of the hospital after all—less the funds raised during the concerts—and sacrifices were being made to ensure that all was as it should be. To ask more of Cousin Robert, to suggest the invasion of his own home beyond all of that: it would make Isobel—not to mention Major Clarkson—appear ungrateful, and neither the doctor nor Mary were willing to put the idea forward.

Without their support, Isobel was uncertain how to proceed, but this indecisive position irritated her: she could see a clear course before her, but no means of pursuing it. That the great house should stand essentially empty while wounded men suffered for lack of space: why could no one see that the moral and practical value of the proposal far outweighed any personal inconvenience that might be caused? Lord and Lady Grantham did not have a God-given right to occupy more space than anyone else, merely because of their fortune and position in society.

Isobel sighed and touched her forehead a moment, knowing that the turn of her thoughts was becoming bitter. Cousin Robert's unquestioning support of the hospital  _was_  very generous. And neither Major Clarkson nor Mary had actually said that using Downton Abbey as a convalescent home was a  _bad_  idea: in fact, their initial expressions had both been ones of hopeful surprise before they began to voice their qualms. Mary might be willing to discuss the idea in a theoretical sense, or at least advise her on how to approach Cousin Robert and Cousin Cora. Perhaps the groundwork could be laid slowly, anecdotes told, stories of Farley Hall and other great houses' contributions to the war effort mentioned. If Isobel worked patiently enough, perhaps Mary and Major Clarkson might become allies in forwarding this proposal, or even Sybil or Cousin Violet.

Cousin Violet could be fearsome indeed, but would she agree to help?

Isobel turned in at the gate to Crawley House and smiled when Molesley appeared, holding the door open for her.

"Is Lady Mary in?" she asked, as he took her things.

"Yes, ma'am, she's in the sitting room."

"Excellent. Thank you, Molesley. If you get a chance for a walk outside today, take it: it's beautiful weather."

"Thank you, Mrs Crawley, I will keep that in mind." He smiled warmly at her and turned to hang up her coat.

Isobel walked into the sitting room and saw Mary in her usual place on the couch, her back to the door. Isobel, despite her annoyance at their current disagreement, still smiled at the sight of the younger woman's dark head. There was something undeniably comforting about having her daughter-in-law living with her, their shared love for Matthew binding them together in a way that mere disagreements couldn't erode. Perhaps Isobel hadn't always been fond of Mary, but she was certainly fond of her now.

As Isobel walked past the small table that stood beside the couch, she saw that  _The Times_  had been delivered. She paused beside the table to ask Mary if she might be done with the newspaper, but checked herself when she saw that a letter lay half-opened upon it. Isobel could not help her glance falling upon the salutation: "My Dear S.B."

"'S.B.'?" she asked, without thinking.

Mary looked up in surprise and then her eyes fell to the letter. She picked it up with a smile, looking at it briefly before folding it and tucking it into the pages of the book that she had in her lap.

"I'm sorry," Isobel said, folding her hands and straightening. "It's absolutely none of my business. I had only meant to ask you if you might be done with the paper."

"I am," Mary said with a nod.

Isobel gave her a grateful smile and taking up the newspaper, sat down at the table in front of the windows to read in the full morning sunlight.

Mary watched her movements in silence and after a moment said, "Matthew calls me 'Storm-Braver'."

Isobel drew in a short breath and looked up from the paper. She swallowed a tight lump that had suddenly risen in her throat and smiled.

"He does?" she asked.

Mary nodded, but there was a small frown of curiosity on the younger woman's face and Isobel chuckled, recollecting herself. She turned slightly to face Mary. "It was a pet name that Reginald had for me. I hadn't realised Matthew knew of it." Isobel's cheeks warmed. "It was private." She smiled, letting herself remember. When she lifted her eyes to Mary's after a moment, she saw understanding reflected in them.

Isobel had never spoken to Mary of what she knew about the younger woman's encounter with the Turkish diplomat, and now did not seem the time for it, either. Someday, perhaps, the right moment might present itself.

"Is he well?" Isobel asked, nodding towards the letter.

Mary's eyes lit up. "Yes. He will be coming home soon, he thinks! General Sir Herbert Strutt has asked for his transfer to be his ADC, whatever that is." She picked up the letter and quickly scanned it, a smile on her face. "They're to do a tour of Yorkshire and Lancashire to boost recruiting." She looked up at Isobel. "He says it will mean at least two months at home and a promotion to Captain."

Isobel clasped her hands with joy. "Truly? Does he give a date? Oh, thank God for this! Two  _months_  at home?"

Mary's smile fell a little. "He doesn't know the date of his arrival yet, and he won't be able to spend the whole of the two months at Downton, of course," she said. "He expects a week at home to start with, possibly a day or two in between if he can be spared and they're staying near enough to Downton, and another day or two at the end before he returns to France. He'll know more as the plans are made."

"Of course," Isobel said, smiling down at the newspaper. Two months in England, away from the fighting! It was a temporary answer to prayer. Would it be too much to hope that the war might end while he was still at home? She sighed. Probably. She glanced through the front page of the newspaper, seeing nothing to raise her hopes in that regard.

Mary had gone back to reading and Isobel looked up at her. With Matthew coming home again so soon after his last leave, it raised another hope as well, and one that Isobel was certain that Mary shared: the possibility of a pregnancy. Of course, little could be expected given how infrequently they had been together during their marriage, but it was curious that Mary had never seemed to show even the slightest signs. Most other couples where the husband was at war seemed to have no trouble increasing the size of their families, as Isobel's experiences assisting the mothers these past three years could attest. Edith was six months along with her second child and Sir Anthony seemed to be home only slightly more frequently than Matthew was. Isobel was happy for Edith and Sir Anthony, of course, but she'd seen the well-masked pain in Mary's features each time the Crawley family was together.

Isobel frowned, looking back down at the newspaper without seeing it. She wondered just how similar Mary's experience had been to her own—

But Isobel discarded that thought. It was a novice's error to project one's own struggles on to another, simply because the surface symptoms bore some similarities. It was most likely just the normal course of things. Mary was young and healthy, as was Matthew; there was no real cause for concern. Timing was such a key ingredient in this matter, and Matthew had almost no control over when he was given leave. At least, Isobel thought as she smiled to herself, it did not seem that they passed up any opportunity when they were together. She was relieved and so very happy that Matthew had found a wife who seemed such a good match for him.

Mary made a thoughtful sound and her brows creased, and Isobel glanced over at her, taking note of the book on Mary's lap for the first time. It was the family Bible. Isobel raised her eyebrows.

"I'd not taken you for a particularly religious sort," she said, and when Mary looked up with a sharp glance, Isobel quirked her lips and added, "Forgive me. I just noticed what you're reading."

Mary looked back down with a wry smile. "I'm not. Not really. Not like Matthew is."

Isobel smiled. "No, he's rather...firm in his views, isn't he?"

Mary's smiled widened and she tilted her head to the side for a moment. She lifted her head again, gesturing with Matthew's letter. "When he's home, we often read novels together before going to sleep. I've asked him to tell me what he's reading while he's out there, so that I can read it, too. He only has the pocket Bible they issued with the gear, so..." She indicated the Bible in her lap with her hands.

Isobel nodded. "What a lovely idea."

"Sometimes it's just a verse that he mentions, and sometimes—" Mary glanced at the letter, "—he says that a passage reminds him of me, and so I find myself searching it for what he sees, looking for my place in it. He doesn't always say exactly what about it reminds him of me." Mary's smile was wry again.

Isobel smiled back.  _Clever, Matthew_.

"I don't think I will ever be able to see the world in the black-and-white terms that he does," Mary said, "but I enjoy thinking about what I find and sending him my critiques and challenges. He never fails to answer me in kind, and in being required to give a fit reply, I find myself thinking about our conversations throughout the day. It is almost as if he is always beside me, provoking me and teasing me and...waking me up."

Mary trailed off, her gaze fixed on something invisible, and then she roused herself and looked at Isobel. There was a slight trace of sheepishness in her cool smile.

"I shan't bore you with any more of my musings," she said. "Is there any news at the post office?"

"I wasn't bored," Isobel said mildly, still smiling. "And no, there was no news. Old Mr Ainsley's gout is acting up again and Mrs James is quite put out because Mrs Leland still refuses to uproot the patch of stinging nettles in her backyard and they keep growing into Mrs James's garden."

"Let us at least take comfort in the fact that there are some things that even war will never be able to change," Mary observed dryly.

Isobel chuckled, then sobered. "And some things that war ought to be able to change."

Mary sighed. "They'll never agree to it, Isobel. Downton Abbey is not merely a big house. It is a private home. Just because it is a large one does not make it any less a cherished space. How would you like to have wounded soldiers in every corner of Crawley House?"

"I would make do," Isobel said tartly. "I am grateful for this house, but I could live with less if need be. These men need more care than the hospital can provide."

"Mama will never accept a dual monarchy," Mary said, and she gave Isobel a direct look.

"What on earth do you mean?" Isobel asked, straightening.

"You can be a bit of a tyrant, you know," Mary said with a smile.

Isobel's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest, then paused.

"What?" Mary asked.

"You reminded me of Matthew just now," Isobel said with a smile.

"How so?"

"The way you criticised me while smiling fondly."

Mary chuckled. "I've been on the receiving end of it often enough."

Isobel smiled. Their eyes met for a moment and then they both looked away, the brief humour past.

After a moment of silence, Mary said, "Sometimes I can see him doing just that when I read his letters."

"I know," Isobel said, wondering where Matthew was at that moment. She missed him so terribly much and she knew that Mary felt the same.

 _Come home soon, son._  Then Isobel's heart inclined upwards.  _Please bring him home soon, safe and whole_ , she prayed silently. She fought the sense that she ought not to ask for what had been denied to so many other mothers—as if Matthew were a special case—but she could not bring herself to regret doing it.  _Some_  of the men must return home uninjured. Why could Matthew not be one of those?

 _Bring them all home soon_ , she thought, looking through the window at the bright, sunny day outside.

* * *

**Late April 1917**

"I apologize for the way your welcome-home supper ended this evening," Robert said heavily as he stopped just outside the foyer, where Bates waited with the ladies' coats and Matthew's cap. "It's difficult for Carson, trying to keep up standards without any footmen. I'm actually surprised he hasn't collapsed from overwork long before now."

"Why not hire someone to replace William, now that he's been called up?" Isobel asked.

"We've tried," Robert said. "We've had an advert out for over a month now and no young men have responded. It's unfortunate, but it's understandable."

"Between conscription and recruitment, there's no one left," Matthew said with a frown.

"Would older men be suitable?" Isobel asked Robert.

"At this point, I'd take on anyone able-bodied and willing," he answered. He glanced at Bates. "No offence intended."

"None taken, my lord," Bates said with a smile, helping Isobel into her coat.

"You could always relax the house's standards," Matthew said.

Robert gave a short laugh. " _I_  might be willing to do away with some things, but Carson wouldn't hear of it. To listen to him, you'd think that giving in to the necessities of our circumstances would be tantamount to letting the Germans win."

"Everyone wants to do their bit," Isobel said bracingly. "But even Carson must bow to the winds of change."

"Will Lady Mary be requiring her coat this evening?" Bates asked Matthew, as he handed over Matthew's officer's cap.

Matthew accepted it with a nod. "Yes. She's just saying good-bye to Carson now. She wanted to make sure that he was resting properly."

Bates smiled. "Mrs Hughes and I will see that he does."

"Excellent," Isobel said. She turned to Robert. "I'd like to come by tomorrow morning to check on him, if you don't mind."

"I'll send the car," he answered.

"If it's not too much trouble, could Branson arrive by eight o'clock?" Isobel asked. "We're expecting a new trainload of the wounded by mid-morning and I want to be at the hospital before then."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Robert said with a glance at Bates, who nodded.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

"Will you need help at the hospital tomorrow?" Matthew asked her.

"Certainly," she said. "But you needn't give up your precious leave time to volunteer with us."

Matthew chuckled. "Really I just want an excuse to watch Mary being an administrator."

Robert grinned. "It's become quite the family affair, hasn't it?"

"She's wonderful," Isobel said. "You should be proud."

"Oh, I am," Robert said. "I'm proud of her and Sybil both."

Mary came down the last flight of stairs and Matthew turned to watch her with a smile as she crossed the great hall towards them.

"What's this I hear of your being proud, Papa?"

Robert stepped forward with a warm smile on his face, and he rested his hands on her upper arms and planted a brief kiss on her forehead. Mary blinked and looked taken aback a moment.

"What was that for?" she asked him.

"Does a father need a reason to kiss his daughter?" Robert asked.

"He does this one," Mary answered, smiling.

"You're doing a wonderful job of helping Clarkson run the hospital," he said. "At least, Cousin Isobel says you are, so it must be true."

Matthew chuckled and Isobel shot him a look before relaxing into a smile and turning to walk out to the waiting car.

* * *

There was an undercurrent of tension in the air the next morning at the hospital, despite all the preparation for the new group of wounded apparently being well underway. Mary frowned as Sister Brodrick approached them with a hurried step.

"Good morning, Mrs Crawley, Nurse Crawley," she said in her usual clipped tone, but her frame and posture were anxious. "Lady Mary." She glanced behind Mary as Matthew came in. "Lt. Crawley."

"It's 'Captain Crawley', now," Mary said. "He's been promoted."

Sister Brodrick gave him a polite smile and then turned to Isobel. "Major Clarkson wants to see you," she said in a low voice. Mary and Sybil exchanged a worried glance.

"What's happened?" Isobel asked.

Sister Brodrick glanced around at all of them, apparently deciding that they could be trusted with the news. "Lt. Courtenay...ended his life late last night." Sybil gave a soft cry and immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide and too bright. Mary stiffened in surprise and horror. "Cpl. Barrow discovered him."

After a moment of shocked silence, Isobel set her jaw. "Yes, I will speak to Major Clarkson now. Nurse Crawley, if you would join me?"

"Yes, Mrs Crawley," Sybil managed to say, her voice roughened, and she followed Isobel quickly down the hall towards Clarkson's office.

"Did you know him?" Matthew murmured, from where he stood close behind Mary.

"No more than any of the others," Mary said, but she still felt her heart twisting in her chest. That the young officer should have survived the war and yet lost this battle!

Thomas emerged from a nearby ward and approached Sister Brodrick, who was flipping through a duty chart. "I've finished giving Lt. Phipps his medicine, Sister," he said. Mary was shocked by how reddened and dull his eyes were, and how flat his voice sounded. When he noticed her and Matthew there, he immediately pulled back his shoulders and straightened himself, giving Matthew a smart salute. "Lady Mary, Capt. Crawley."

Matthew returned the salute. "Cpl. Barrow. It seems you got your wish."

Thomas's eyes narrowed and he gave a pained smile as he made a slight gesture with his wounded hand. "After a fashion, sir."

"I meant your posting to Downton, Corporal," Matthew said easily, his conciliatory tone catching Mary's attention. She had missed something in that exchange, but she kept the polite expression on her face.

"Major Clarkson found a place for me and I'm grateful," Thomas said, lifting his chin.

"Have all the beds been changed in the First Day Room?" Sister Brodrick asked, uninterested in the men's exchange. "The new group should be arriving shortly."

"I'm nearly done with it," Thomas answered.

"Can I help?" Matthew asked.

Thomas gave him a surprised look, which he quickly hid. "Of course, sir." He looked at Sister Brodrick, who gave her approval with a wave of her hand as she moved towards a different ward, calling to another young nurse to 'look sharp!' as the girl nearly collided with a slow-moving officer who was limping towards the doorway.

"Capt. Williams! What are you doing out of bed?" Sister Brodrick said gently, taking the man's elbow and leading him back into the ward while he made noises about looking for the loo.

Giving Mary a brief press of his hand, Matthew followed Thomas down the hall. Mary watch the two men walk away and she turned towards her office, her thoughts still in turmoil about Lt. Courtenay.

* * *

When Mary saw Thornton coming down the road in the Strallan lorry, she rose from her desk and went to meet him. Although most of the new wounded had been unloaded and laid in their beds by now, several vehicles still remained outside the hospital while the medical corpsmen finalized all the transfer paperwork with Clarkson. She went outside and waved Thornton towards the rear entrance, rather than the usual side one that he used, and she walked around the back of the building to prop the door open for him.

She gave a small start when she nearly collided with a tense Matthew, who was bracing himself against the stone wall with straight arms, his head bowed and his eyes closed. He immediately opened his eyes and straightened, turning to look at her as he dropped his arms.

His face was white and his eyes had a haunted look in them—but then he blinked it away and smiled at her. "Mary."

"Are you all right?" she asked, reaching out to touch his arm.

He didn't answer, looking past her instead. "Is that Anthony's man?"

Mary nodded and moved around him to pull open the hospital door, quickly nudging the wedge under it to hold it open. "Thornton. He's come every week throughout the winter with fresh produce from Edith." She was chagrined to hear the note of pride in her voice.

"Fresh?" Matthew said, raising his eyebrows and taking an interest in the box of plump-looking carrots that Thornton was now lifting out of the back of the lorry. "In winter? That's impressive."

"She and Anthony built greenhouses specifically to supply the hospital," Mary said with a dry smile, giving Thornton a nod as he approached. She arched an eyebrow at Matthew. "She's been very active in running the estate during Anthony's absence. Thornton says that she'd be driving the lorry, too, if Major Clarkson would let her."

"And she'd be a fine driver, Lady Edith would," the property manager said with an easy, familiar smile. "Good morning, my lady. Shall I put this in the usual spot?"

"Yes, please," Mary answered. When Thornton had moved out of earshot, Mary leaned towards Matthew and added,  _sotto voce_ , "I think he's just being polite: she's probably driving him mad with all her meddling."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Matthew asked, crossing his arms and giving her a partly-amused, partly-reproving look.

"Of course not, darling, it's  _Edith_."

Matthew shook his head, exhaling a dry laugh. "I'll never understand you two."

"Yes, thankfully you were blessed with an absence of siblings."

A shadow crossed Matthew's face and he dropped his arms slowly. "I wanted them. It was often lonely. And with Father gone, who will look after Mother if I don't come back?"

"I will," Mary said quickly, her teasing tone gone as she stepped forward and rested her hands on his arms, giving them a comforting squeeze. "And you  _will_  come back! Don't say such things." Matthew gave her a tight smile, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. She frowned, giving him an inquisitive look. "What's wrong, darling?"

Thornton's footsteps approached and by the time he appeared in the doorway again, Mary had stepped back from Matthew. Thornton gave them a nod and went past, continuing his task.

"I'll help him bring the rest of it in," Matthew said, avoiding her gaze, and he walked briskly towards where Thornton stood unloading another box of vegetables.

* * *

"Oh, Harry! Oh, no!" Edith cried and stood up, flinging out her arms, unsure of where to begin. Harry had dug deep into his nappy and was quietly intent upon smearing its contents across every surface within his reach in the nursery, but he'd startled at her sudden cry and now his lower lip was trembling as he stared up at her. Edith turned slowly, taking in the whole sight of the room with dawning horror.

She usually insisted on tending to her son alone during Nanny's lunch time each day, treasuring that brief hour with him while they played together and she read him books and told him stories of his dear Papa. Today, however, Harry had slid off her lap, uninterested in the book—she could hardly blame him; her growing belly was making her lap a less appealing place for him to sit—and he'd begun making small towers of blocks and knocking them over while happily squealing and talking to himself. Edith had been watching him with fond amusement—or at least, she  _thought_  she had been. She must have dozed off in the rocking chair. She'd been  _so_  tired lately; this second baby was taking more out of her than Harry had done.

"My lady?" Cook said, hurrying into the room. Edith looked up in despair at her lady's maid. "Ohhh—" Cook covered her mouth with her hand, then straightened and drew it away, clearly fighting a smile even as her nostrils flared at the smell. "Oh, Master Harold," she said, looking at the boy fondly. She quickly met Edith's eyes. "I'll go fetch Nanny, my lady."

"Yes, thank you," Edith said, sinking back down into the rocking chair, feeling suddenly exhausted and useless as a mother, and on the verge of bursting into tears. Really, there was no need for such hysterics, but her emotions seemed so easily overwhelmed these days. She hated feeling weak and childish and wished again that Anthony were home, so that she could take comfort in his steady presence and his warm embrace. Why hadn't he written? She hadn't heard from him in nearly three months and she was fighting a rising sense of panic at his absence; normally he sent her a letter every fortnight. She knew that there were all manner of reasonable explanations for the delay, but it was impossible not to fear the worst. She calmed herself by imagining Anthony walking into the room now, for she knew he would merely laugh at Harry's adventures and assure her that everything could be cleaned.

Harry, seeing that no further outbursts were being directed at him, had calmed and was now rubbing his soiled hands together and looking at them with interest.

Maxwell appeared in the doorway. "Mr Thornton and Mr Hardy are waiting in the library, my lady—oh dear." The normally implacable butler stood in the open doorway with wide eyes, clearly unwilling to cross the threshold. Under other circumstances, his expression would have made her smile, but now Edith only nodded. She supposed that she would laugh about this spectacle later, but right now she was not feeling up to a meeting with her conservative property manager and her most cantankerous tenant. There was nothing for it, however. Every day that the decision was delayed would mean a delay in sowing the crops and purchasing new livestock. She wished again that Anthony would come home soon. He would calmly put everything to rights. No one would argue with  _him_.

"Maxwell, please tell them that I will be down presently," Edith said, infusing more firmness into her tone than she felt.

"I can tell them to come back tomorrow, my lady," he said quietly.

"No," Edith said, drawing in a breath and standing up. Harry had gone back to wiping brown handprints on the plinth in front of him. "I'll go down as soon as Nanny arrives."

"I can watch Master Harold until then," Maxwell said.

Edith smiled. "Thank you, Maxwell." He inclined his head and stepped aside for her as she passed him. She briefly checked her reflection in the hall mirror, smoothed her hair and dress, and then descended the stairs and went into the library with her head held high. Anthony had trusted her with this; she could do it.

The two men turned towards her as she entered.

"Andrew!" she said with a smile. "I had expected your father."

"He's feeling poorly, my lady," Andrew Hardy said. "He sends his apologies. John's just been called up, so Father sent me."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your father," Edith said. "I'll have Mrs Wallis make up a basket for you to bring back."

"Thank you, my lady, that will be very much appreciated."

"Young Mr Hardy here has some new ideas, my lady," Thornton said gruffly, his tone indicating that he likely didn't approve of them.

Edith raised an eyebrow and looked again at Andrew Hardy. The young man couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen. He would be eligible to be called up soon. It would be a shame if she lost a potential ally to the war. "Oh yes?"

Andrew glanced nervously at Thornton before speaking to Edith. "I'd like to buy three times as much seed for our crops this year, my lady. There are new methods that I think will work well: I tried them in me own plot last year and you should have seen the yield! Even Father was impressed."

Thornton raised a hand. "It was only a tiny plot. Hardly justification for a significant outlay, particularly during these uncertain times. I urge thrift. We wouldn't want the extra seed to rot and go to waste."

Andrew lifted his chin. "I'm certain I can make it work. I've been using bacteria to draw nutrients from the air into the soil for two years now. I came to you now, my lady, because I know you're interested in the new methods."

Edith smiled. "I applaud your initiative, Mr Hardy."

"Perhaps if we waited until Sir Anthony returned—" Thornton began.

"Would additional phosphoric acid, potash, and nitrogen need to be purchased to support the increased yield expected?" Edith asked Andrew. "I wouldn't want to deplete the soil for merely short-term gain."

The men looked taken aback for a moment and they exchanged a look. Then Andrew gave a quick smile and nodded. "Yes, my lady. That's what worked well in the test fields at Rothamsted. I've also started to make arrangements to bring manure in from our neighboring farms."

"But what about those farms' fields?" Edith asked with a frown. "Won't they need the manure? If the yield is as good as you've suggested, it's likely that all the farmers would want to adopt these new methods."

Andrew stepped forward, his eyes alight. "That's why I'd like to get an advance to buy pigs, my lady."

Edith blinked. "Pigs?"

Thornton cleared his throat.

Andrew spoke quickly. "Yes, their manure has the greatest value per thousand pounds of the animal per year—"

Thornton put up a hand and Andrew subsided.

"The methods we use have worked well for as long as I've been here," Thornton said. "And the other tenants aren't eager to embrace change right now, my lady. With the price of food at such highs, everyone is feeling confident going into the growing season. No one wants to create problems where none exist." He gave Andrew a short look and Andrew frowned.

Edith went past them and sat down at Anthony's desk, quickly writing herself a reminder note. "I see that there is a great deal for me to consider," she said when she lifted her head. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Hardy. I will give you my decision in two days' time, but I expect to see a written analysis of your proposed increased seed and soil additive costs, and all the expenses involved in maintaining pigs. I am interested in testing this idea on your land," and she gave him a significant look, "assuming that your father is amenable."

"Yes, I understand, my lady."

Edith looked at Thornton and he gave a curt nod. She rose with a smile. "If that is all, gentlemen, then I must ask you to excuse me. I have preparations to make for this evening's dinner party."

"Thank you for seeing me," Andrew said.

"You're welcome, Mr Hardy. I look forward to working with you."

Edith crossed to the door, where Maxwell now stood impassively watching the scene. As she passed in front of him, she felt a sudden spasm in her leg and she stumbled, giving a small cry. Her calf tightened painfully as Maxwell took firm hold of her elbows.

"My lady?" he asked, worry lacing his tone.

"It's nothing, Maxwell, just a cramp," Edith said through gritted teeth, attempting to limp past him.

"Here, my lady, sit and rest." He guided her to a nearby chair, where she sat down with a wince and tried to flex her leg, turning her ankle this way and that. Thornton and Andrew approached, looking concerned.

Mrs Shore bustled into the library, Edith's cry having clearly reached the main hall. "Do you need the doctor, my lady?"

"No, Mrs Shore," Edith said to the housekeeper, panting and then straightening. "I think a bit of rest would—" she hissed, "—be sufficient."

"Very good, my lady," Maxwell said in a low voice, and he helped her rise to her feet. Mrs Shore quickly took the job of supporting Edith's other side, and together the three started to move slowly out into the main hall.

"Come, man, let's see ourselves out," Thornton said.

"Wait," Edith cut in, causing Maxwell and Mrs Shore to pause. "Mrs Shore, would you please see that Mrs Wallis makes up a basket for Mr Hardy to bring back to his parents? Old Mr Hardy isn't feeling well."

"I'll see to it as soon as you're settled," Mrs Shore said.

"I hope you feel better soon, my lady," Andrew said warmly, as he quickly moved to follow Thornton into the foyer.

"Thank you, Mr Hardy," Edith said. "Do not be late with your papers. The sowing cannot wait another week."

"Yes, my lady."

* * *

Mrs Shore emerged from the master bedroom and Cook met her in the hall. The housekeeper spoke in a low voice as she pulled the door closed behind herself.

"I know Lady Edith doesn't wish us to send for the doctor, but I'm concerned. She's overtaxing herself."

"I agree," Cook murmured. "Is she resting now? Shall I fetch Mrs Crawley? Perhaps a visit from a family member might be more acceptable."

"I'll send Marsters," Mrs Shore said. "You stay here in case Lady Edith wakes."

"Is tonight's dinner party still going forward?"

Mrs Shore's expression was disapproving, but she nodded. "She wouldn't hear of cancelling it. She insists that celebrating Lady Grantham's birthday now, before Mr Matthew goes back to the front, is important to her."

Cook nodded. "I'll wait nearby."

Mrs Shore gave the lady's maid a brief smile and then left to find the chauffeur.

* * *

"Mr Marsters!" Anna exclaimed as she descended the stairs. The Strallans' elderly chauffeur was standing in the foyer of Crawley House, Mr Molesley behind him. Anna gestured with the clothing that was draped over her arm. "Lady Mary and Mr Matthew are not yet ready. You're two hours early, aren't you?" Anna paused, suddenly worried. "Is Lady Edith's dinner party cancelled? Is she all right?"

Mr Marsters put up a calming hand. "Lady Edith is all right and no, the dinner party is not cancelled. Mrs Shore is concerned that Lady Edith may be overexerting herself. Is Mrs Crawley in?"

"She's at the hospital," Anna said, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

"Ah," Mr Marsters said with a quick smile and a slow doff of his hat. Anna smiled back and thought that if he were twenty years younger, she might have been willing to walk out with him.  _That_  thought reminded her of Mr Bates and she smiled more widely. "Thank you, Miss Smith," the chauffeur said. "Lovely to see you, as always."

"You'll be seeing me again in only a couple hours, Mr Marsters," Anna said, pretending to flirt with him.

"I look forward to it," Mr Marsters said, still smiling at her. Mr Molesley cleared his throat. He was now standing behind the chauffeur holding the door open. Mr Marsters turned and gave him a broad smile. "Good day, Mr Molesley."

"Good day, Mr Marsters," Mr Molesley said stiffly as the chauffeur walked out. Anna chuckled as Mr Molesley closed the door behind the older man.

"The cheek of some people," Mr Molesley muttered.

"Oh, I don't mind," Anna said cheerfully. "It's all in good fun."

"Are Lady Mary and Mr Matthew ready for us?" Mr Molesley asked carefully, his glance roving nervously towards the ceiling. Anna suppressed another chuckle at the valet's discomfort. It wasn't fair to make fun of the man; he was a such kind, gentle soul.

"Yes, I think they are finally...finished...with Mr Matthew's dressing room and you can go up."

"Oh good," Mr Molesley said, straightening his suit coat. "I hadn't finished pressing Mr Matthew's mess kit and I still need to draw his bath."

"I'll need to draw Lady Mary's as well," Anna said, heading towards the back room with the clothing draped over her arm, "so be sure not to use up all the hot water."

"Oh," Mr Molesley said, looking suddenly concerned.

Anna took pity on him and smiled. "I'm just teasing you, Mr Molesley. I'm sure there's plenty. Lady Mary would like to go first."

"Of course," he said, relaxing and smiling and heading towards the stairs. "I'll just finish the pressing, then, while I wait."

* * *

Matthew murmured his thanks to Molesley and went across to the bedroom, giving the door a quick knock before hearing Mary's assent and entering. Mary sat at her vanity, looking the picture of beauty and elegance, as always, as Anna put the finishing touches on her hair. Matthew pushed the door closed and sat down on the edge of their bed to watch.

"You're looking lovely this evening," he said. "And you've done a very nice job with her hair, Anna."

"Thank you, Mr Matthew," Anna said, looking pleased.

"Flatterer," Mary murmured, but there was a smile on her lips. She finished dabbing perfume behind her ears and her eyes met his in the mirror. He grinned, unrepentant, their earlier tryst fresh in his mind. She was apparently thinking the same thing, for her eyes travelled over him appreciatively. She turned on her seat to look at him. Anna smoothly adjusted her stance and continued putting the finishing touches on Mary's hair as Mary pulled on her gloves. "You're looking very smart, too."

"Thank you," Matthew said. "What's this I hear of Mother not coming home to dress? I thought she was coming with us to Edith's tonight."

"She's already there," Mary said. "Marsters went to the hospital to pick her up this afternoon, after Edith's fainting spell."

"Edith fainted?" Matthew asked, concerned.

"We don't know that, my lady," Anna said quickly. "Mr Marsters just said Mrs Shore was concerned about Lady Edith overexerting herself."

"Yes, well, whatever the cause, I don't see why Edith insists upon hosting a family dinner party when she's nearly six months along. I would have thought last night's affair at Downton Abbey would have been sufficient to welcome you home."

"But she wasn't there," Matthew pointed out reasonably.

"Yes, because she wasn't feeling up to it," Mary said. "If she's still not up to it, why is she going through with it?"

"Perhaps she doesn't want to give into circumstances without a fight?" he said. "I can understand that."

Mary gave him a look. "So can I, darling, but really she has nothing to prove. I should think that her performance thus far has been more than sufficient to convince the rest of us that we underestimated her."

" _I_  didn't," Matthew said, smiling with pride at the thought of Edith capably running an estate by herself while also being a mother and a force for good in the community. "The copy of her article in  _The_   _Ripon Gazette_ that Robert sent me on the importance of updating our country's agricultural methods, while the farming community is enjoying an economic boom, seemed very insightful to me."

"Yes, if you don't mind our family being publicly associated with war profiteering," Mary said dryly.

Matthew tilted his head at her reproachfully. "She wasn't arguing for the landlords to line their pockets. She was arguing for an update of the machinery and a reconsideration of the landlord/tenant relationship, moving from a paternalistic structure to a more egalitarian one. Besides, the landlords  _aren't_  profiting from this boom, only the tenant farmers themselves are: the rents aren't structured to rise and fall with the market." Matthew frowned. "That's going to become a real problem. Without the pooled resources that a landlord used to be able to provide, making the sweeping changes that are needed will be difficult at best. The tenants have to work together with the landlords on this."

Mary finished pushing the fingers of her gloves on. "I read the article, thank you."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head, then paused and looked at her. "You're jealous."

Mary gave a short laugh of disbelief. "I am not. Of Edith? You must be joking, surely."

"There, I'm finished with your hair, my lady," Anna said, stepping back and inspecting her handiwork. Mary turned her head this way and that as she looked at it in the mirror.

"Excellent job, Anna."

"What will you do with your evening off?" Matthew asked Anna. Mary caught Anna's gaze in the mirror and the two women shared a smile.

"Mr Bates is taking me to the Grantham Arms this evening," Anna said. "Food and music and dancing, what more could a girl ask?"

Mary stood up, holding her small handbag and smiling, and Matthew joined her.

"It sounds lovely," he said. "Have a wonderful evening, Anna."

"I plan to," Anna said with a grin, gathering up a few discarded items of clothing. "You as well, Lady Mary, Mr Matthew."

They nodded and smiled and left her to finish tidying up the bedroom.

 


	21. Chapter 21

_21_

Isobel was in a foul mood indeed when Lord and Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess arrived at Locksleigh House in all their state. Isobel didn't mind so much that she wasn't dressed for dinner; she much preferred the practical comforts of her working-day clothing, but she didn't like being reminded of how little influence she had at this juncture. By the time she had been able to leave the hospital and go to Locksleigh House to see Edith, it had been too late to send for clothing and change properly for dinner. Edith had graciously offered to lend Isobel a dress and the use of her lady's maid, but that had only been a polite gesture. Isobel was many years past having a hope of fitting into Edith's long, elegant gowns.

Still, it was not really the clothing that bothered Isobel, but her sense of powerlessness. Right now the three aristocrats represented everything that irritated Isobel most about their class differences. Men were suffering and dying and something could be done about it, but no one was lifting a finger to help. She had been so hopeful after her conversation with Major Clarkson and Sybil this morning. Major Clarkson had finally agreed to approach Lord and Lady Grantham about using Downton Abbey as a convalescent home, and Sybil believed that Lt. Courtenay's death could be enough to convince them of the necessity. Even Mary had come around. But Isobel's subsequent visit to the Dower House to recruit additional support, at Mary's suggestion, had not turned out as Isobel had hoped.

If anyone noticed that Isobel's greeting to Cousin Violet was less cordial than usual, no one mentioned it. Their collective attention soon turned towards little Harry, as they handed him around and exclaimed over him.

"He has Anthony's hair and eyes!" Cora said proudly, smiling at her grandson as Robert looked on from where he stood behind her seat. Even he was making amusing faces at the boy.

"And Edith's smile," Sybil cooed. "What a big boy you are!" She tickled Harry's chin and he giggled and turned away, hiding himself in Cora's neck, while Edith looked on with the contented expression of a proud mother.

Mary and Matthew sat opposite Cora and Sybil, watching the family scene with small smiles on their faces. Isobel found herself wondering what a child of theirs might look like. She secretly hoped it would have Matthew's unusual blue eyes.

Harry started to fuss, so at a glance from Edith, Nanny swooped in and carefully extracted him from Cora's lap, turning to give the family one last chance to bid him their good-byes before he was taken upstairs to bed. Everyone waved and gave him their friendliest grins—with the notable exception of Cousin Violet, who simply looked upon the proceedings with an expression of slight disapproval as she held her cane out in front of her—and then Nanny whisked him away.

"He does  _so_  look like Anthony." Cora gave a happy sigh.

Sybil looked at Edith. "Have you heard from Anthony?" she asked hopefully.

Edith's face fell and she plucked restlessly at the arm of her chair before putting on a brave smile and looking back up again. "No."

Mary frowned. "Still nothing?"

"There could be any number of reasons for the delay," Robert said. "Perhaps he hasn't had a chance to post his letters yet."

"Or the post has been waylaid," Isobel added. "Some of Matthew's letters have arrived out of order."

Edith nodded miserably and glanced at Matthew, who merely gave her a small, tight smile.

Cora murmured something to Sybil as Robert settled himself in the empty chair beside Matthew and crossed his legs.

"I missed taking you on a tour of the cottages today," Robert said with a smile. "Jarvis has some new things to show off."

Matthew nodded. "I'd like to see them. I'm sorry for not coming by this afternoon. I decided to spend the whole day with Mother and Mary."

"Of course." Robert waved a hand dismissively as he smiled at Mary and Isobel. "The cottages can wait."

"I'll come by tomorrow morning," Matthew offered. "After breakfast?"

"Certainly," Robert said. "What was it like at the hospital today?"

Matthew's polite smile fell away, and Isobel noticed how quickly Mary turned to listen.

Matthew didn't answer immediately; he seemed to lose himself for a long moment as he stared into the middle distance, and Isobel frowned. She'd been so busy getting the new group of wounded men settled that she hadn't paid much attention to her son.

Matthew's voice was quiet, and somehow the entire room had stopped to listen. "At the front, the men pray to be spared, of course. But if that's not to be, they pray for a bullet that kills them cleanly." He swallowed. "For too many of them today, that prayer had not been answered."

Robert looked at Matthew, discomfited, his earlier jollity lost.

Isobel regarded Matthew thoughtfully. He'd not spoken much of his experiences at the front—none of the men did—but she found it curious what he'd chosen to focus on. She was disturbed at the thought that this war might be putting him through a crisis of faith. He was far more shaken than he let on, she realised. But could she really say she was surprised?

Sybil cleared her throat. "Mama, Papa...there's something you should know."

Robert frowned and looked at her.

"Yes, dear?" Cora said.

"Lt. Courtenay: you remember that I spoke of him at breakfast yesterday? Lord Dunstan's heir, he was blinded by a German gas attack?" At her parents' nod, she swallowed and her gloved hand flexed on the arm of the sofa. "He...took his own life last night."

Cora gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

Isobel pressed her lips together as she saw where Sybil was going with this.  _Good girl._

Robert had uncrossed his legs and he sat forward. "Why did no one inform me of this?" He shot Isobel a concerned look.

She straightened and held her hands in her lap, careful not to betray her eagerness. "Major Clarkson is at Farley Hall this evening and this was my first opportunity to see you and Cousin Cora since it happened." Isobel glanced at Sybil before returning to Robert. "It did not seem appropriate conversation prior to dinner."

"Why not?" Violet asked sharply. "That's never stopped you before."

Isobel stiffened and shot her an angry look.

"Mama." Robert gave Violet a quelling glance, then turned to Sybil. "What happened?"

"He was depressed," Sybil answered. "Cpl. Barrow and I were just beginning to teach him how to navigate a room without his sight, but then he received news that he was being released to his family." She paused, then looked directly at her father. "He wasn't ready to go."

Isobel watched Robert's face. She could see that he understood very well what Lt. Courtenay's likely reception at home would have been. She sat forward eagerly.

"What is needed is a local convalescent home, for those soldiers who still need care and rehabilitation, but no longer require a hospital bed," she said. "Major Clarkson and Sybil and I think that Downton Abbey would be ideal for this purpose."

Robert and Cora looked shocked.

"Downton Abbey?" he repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, it's an excellent idea—" Isobel began, unclasping her hands and getting ready to make the case that she'd been rehearsing all day.

"I think it's a  _ridiculous_  idea!" Violet said with a huff.

"Why?" Sybil demanded angrily.

Violet turned to look at her. "Because Downton Abbey is a house, not a hospital."

"But Granny," Mary said. "A convalescent home is where people rest and recuperate."

"But if there are lapses? What then? Amputation in the dining room? Resuscitation in the pantry?"

Cora looked distressed. "Oh, it would certainly be the most tremendous disturbance! If you knew how chaotic things are as it is!"

Isobel turned eagerly towards Cora. "But when there's so much good can be done—"

The sharp report of Violet's cane striking the floor made everyone jump.

"I forbid it!" Violet declared. "To have strange men prodding and prying around the house, to say nothing of pocketing the spoons! It is out of the question." She turned away, as if the conversation were finished. Isobel's mouth dropped open in shock.

Cora lowered her head and spoke in a rushed and slightly trembling voice that Isobel had never heard before. "I hesitate to remind you, but Downton Abbey is  _my_  house now, Robert's and mine, and  _we_  will make the decision."

Unexpectedly, Cora launched herself across the room towards where Maxwell stood with the drinks tray, and she picked up a glass, taking a quick swallow.

Violet looked stunned, although there was an odd twinkle in her eyes. "I see!" Her voice wavered, which made Isobel narrow her eyes. Since when did Violet allow her voice to waver? "So now I'm an outsider who need not be consulted?"

Cora looked past the tumbler she held in her hand. "Since you put it like that, yes," she hissed.

Isobel watched this exchange with fascination. She had never seen the two women address each other in such a bald fashion before, although she had long sensed that they were not the best of friends. She looked at Mary in confusion, but Mary's expression was of no help. Isobel looked back at Violet—

—and Violet met her eyes and gave her the smallest nod before looking away. Isobel's mouth dropped open again before she quickly closed it. Her earlier anger at Violet dissipated entirely as she realised what the Dowager Countess had done, and then she pursed her lips and fought down a smile as she looked down at her hands.  _Masterfully done_ , she thought.

The room remained in a tense silence for several long seconds, and then Mrs Shore stepped into the room, giving Maxwell a nod.

He addressed Edith. "Dinner is served, my lady."

She rose gracefully and Isobel admired her poise.

Moving to stand beside her, Matthew offered Edith his arm and, smiling, she took it and they led the way to the dining room, the rest of the family following behind. Robert brought up the rear, with Isobel and Violet walking directly in front of him. After an initial glance, the two women did not look at one another as they crossed the main hall side-by-side.

* * *

Over the course of dinner, conversation flowed smoothly as the family exchanged bits of news and made small talk. Edith had seated Mary and Matthew beside each other at the foot of the table and they watched her preside over the meal with aplomb, engaging Robert and Isobel in quiet conversation.

Matthew leaned slightly towards Mary, speaking quietly. "Edith seems jolly tonight."

Mary set down her fork. "She's found her  _métier_. Farm labouring."

"Don't be so tough on her."

"That's like asking the fox to spare the chicken."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head. "What about you?" He smiled knowingly at her. "Have you found your true calling?"

She smirked and nudged her foot against his. "What do you think?"

"You know what I think," he murmured with a cheeky grin, nudging her back, and she was quite certain that he wasn't thinking primarily of hospital accounts. She felt a blush rise on her skin as she reached for her glass of wine.

There was a sudden crash and clatter at the other end of the table and they both jumped, Mary narrowly avoiding knocking over her glass.

Robert and Cora each reached out with cries of "Edith!" and Isobel rose quickly from her seat. Matthew was up and beside her in an instant. Robert was standing half-out of his seat, holding Edith's arm in an awkward grasp as she tilted dangerously to the side. Matthew quickly moved to catch Edith, and he and Robert lifted her carefully from her seat and at Isobel's direction, laid her out on the floor.

"Fetch Major Clarkson," Cora commanded Maxwell, who was standing nearby with a tureen and a stricken look on his face.

"He's staying over at Farley Hall tonight," Mary said, now standing herself. "He'll not be back until tomorrow noon."

"Edith, Edith dear," Isobel was saying quietly, patting Edith's face. "Edith, can you hear me?"

Sybil had crouched down beside her sister and her fingers were pressed against Edith's wrist. "Her pulse is normal."

Isobel gently tugged at one of Edith's eyelids, and Edith winced and moaned, turning her head away slightly. She pulled her wrist from Sybil's grasp and pressed that hand to her opposite shoulder.

"Anthony..." she murmured.

"Anthony's not here, my dear," Isobel said gently, frowning down at Edith's shoulder. Edith's eyes blinked open and she started trying to sit up.

"Perhaps you should—" Robert started, but Sybil and Matthew were already helping Edith to sit.

Edith looked down at her dress in dismay, where there was a large, dark purple stain from her toppled wine glass. "My dress." She plucked unhappily at the wet fabric.

"Never mind that," Isobel said. "Do you feel pain in your shoulder?"

Edith winced again and frowned at her, and then the look of confusion slowly cleared from her face. "No...not anymore. What happened?"

"We don't know," Isobel answered. "You fainted."

"No, I—" and then Edith stopped. Her eyes widened and she suddenly put her hand to her mouth as her chin trembled. "Anthony!"

"Anthony's not here," Sybil said.

"No, he's...he's..." and Edith burst into tears.

Mary, who had come to stand beside Matthew, exchanged a quick, worried glance with him.

"We should get her to bed," Matthew said, looking down at his mother, who nodded. "I'll take her up."

"Let me help." Robert came around Edith's other side. The two men crouched down and soon Edith was settled in Matthew's arms, sobbing quietly. Cora pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

"I'm, m'sorry," Edith said, around a hiccough, as she wiped at her eyes.

"Shh, my dear." Cora smoothed Edith's hair back from her forehead. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"We'll see her settled," Sybil said to her parents.

Maxwell led the way out of the dining room with Matthew following him, and Isobel and Sybil close on his heels.

Mary remained behind with her parents and grandmother. Cora sat down shakily in the nearest chair and Robert put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The four of them spent a long moment in silence.

"This is becoming a disturbing pattern," Violet observed, from where she still sat. "Two collapses in two nights? What is happening with this family?"

"Edith will be all right," Mary said, with more conviction than she felt. "She just needs to rest."

"She misses Anthony," Cora said.

"We all do," Robert answered.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree, if only for Edith's sake," Violet agreed. "He's not a bad sort."

"No," Cora said.

No one spoke, unwilling to voice what they all feared.

Finally Robert sighed and gave Cora's shoulder a squeeze. She placed her hand over his and pressed her lips together.

"No news is good news." He spoke quietly. "We must remember that."

After another long silence, Branson, slightly out of breath, pushed open the dining room door and took a few steps inside. He held his cap in his hand. "Lady Sybil sent me," he said. "Mr Marsters and I can ready the cars if you wish."

"Thank you, Branson," Robert said. "Perhaps now is a good time for us to take our leave. Mama?"

Violet nodded and rose. "Quite."

Branson held open the door for them all to pass through. Maxwell was coming down the stairs, and he crossed the main hall to retrieve their coats.

"I'll go up and check on them." Mary moved past Maxwell. Matthew appeared on the landing and she went up to meet him. "How is she?" she asked in a lowered voice, when they neared each other.

"Mother says she'll be fine. There's no cause for concern. Although," he added, giving a small smile, "she commanded Edith not to host any more dinner parties until after the baby is born."

Mary smiled.

"She's asking for you," Matthew said.

"Your mother?" Mary asked, confused.

"No, Edith."

Mary frowned at this but continued up the stairs, brushing her hand against his as they parted. He went down to speak to her parents and grandmother while she walked across the gallery and knocked on Edith's bedroom door.

Isobel opened the door to let Mary in. Cook, Edith's lady's maid, was helping Edith undress, and Sybil stood beside her sister, giving her an arm to brace against.

"I'm leaving now," Isobel said quietly to Mary. "But someone ought to stay with her tonight."

"How is she?" Mary asked, matching Isobel's low tone.

"It's not serious. I don't think she has a blood clot, but she's shaken. Would you stay? Sybil has an early shift tomorrow morning and I need to be available at the hospital until Major Clarkson returns."

Mary nodded. "I'll stay."

"I'll tell Matthew," Isobel said.

Mary gave Isobel a small smile of thanks as she went out.

Mary stood and watched as Edith was readied for bed. She was intrigued by Edith's pregnant form, but looked away to give her sister privacy. When Edith was settled under the covers, Cook left with the stained dress and Sybil brought Edith a glass of water. Mary stood at the foot of the bed with her hands folded together, waiting until Edith looked up at her.

"You asked for me?" Mary said.

Edith nodded and reached out a hand. Slightly uncomfortable, Mary came around the bed and sat down on the edge of it, acquiescing.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble I've put everyone to." Edith's eyes were round and her face was pale. She held Mary's hand in a tight grip. "It just came upon me so suddenly, that's all."

"You must rest," Mary said.

"Oh Mary... Do you think we might get along a little better in the future?"

Mary regarded her with some surprise. What had brought on this uncharacteristic sisterly warmth towards herself? Mary thought briefly of Edith's desperate calls for Anthony.

"I doubt it," she answered dryly, patting Edith's hand in a perfunctory manner. "But as we both understand what it is to have a husband at war, let's declare a truce until we have both of them back safe, for good."

A ghost of a smile passed over Edith's lips.

"Would you ask Papa to telephone the War Office tomorrow and inquire after Anthony?" she asked.

"Of course I will," Mary answered. "And I will stay with you tonight."

"You needn't do that," Edith said. "I'll be fine."

"Oh, I'm not doing it for your sake," Mary said. "I've given my word to Isobel, and you know what it's like to cross her." Mary resisted the urge to smile. "Now that I live with her, it's out of the question."

"Not to mention work with her," Sybil added, smiling.

"I'll tell her you said that," Edith told them.

"Don't you dare," Mary said, finally smiling, and she drew her hand out of Edith's grasp and rose. "I must go down and speak to Papa before they leave."

"I'll stay here until Branson gets back," Sybil said.

Mary nodded and left the room.

Upon reaching the main hall, however, she saw that it was empty and realised that she was too late. She heard a soft clink of dishes and looked into the dining room, where she found Maxwell directing the clean-up of dinner.

"My lady," he said, coming round the table. "Mr Matthew asked me to tell you that he's taking Mrs Crawley home and that he will be back shortly with your things."

Mary smiled. "Thank you, Maxwell."

"I've instructed Mrs Shore to make up a room. If you go up, she'll show you to it."

"Excellent. Have a good evening."

"And you, my lady."

Mary decided to wait in the library first. The maids were probably readying the room and she would only be in the way if she went up now. She walked across to the small room and ran her fingers over the tomes until she found a G.A. Henty that she hadn't yet finished reading, and she pulled it from the shelf. She settled herself in a chair to wait for Matthew and began to read.

Or rather, she tried to focus on the novel. Instead, her thoughts kept returning to Edith's strange mood. Since when had Edith ever seemed to want to be on good terms with her? The dinner scene echoed in Mary's mind. She thought back to Edith's desperate calls for Anthony and then her cries, revealing her half-formed fears that something terrible had happened to him—but  _were_  they half-formed? She had spoken with such an odd air of certainty before dissolving into tears. Mary felt a strange chill, but she shook it off and frowned down at the pages before her. Matthew would return shortly with their things and one way or another, they would eventually hear news of Anthony. Mary would remain nearby during the night if Edith needed anything, and she would offer whatever comfort she could in the morning.

* * *

When Tom Branson stepped back inside the foyer of Locksleigh House, Mr Matthew and Lady Sybil were coming down the stairs. Sybil's eyes softened when she met Tom's gaze, but then she composed her face and Tom's heart twisted a little at the sight. He was careful not to continue looking at her.

"It's a long night for you, Branson, isn't it?" Mr Matthew said with friendly smile.

Tom returned it. "I can't complain, sir." He glanced at Sybil, looking forward to being alone with her on the drive back.

Her eyes flashed a warning at him and he fought down the urge to grin. He looked back at Mr Matthew, who had caught the exchange and his brows twitched in curiosity. Tom straightened and erased any look of familiarity from his face, playing the part of the consummate, impersonal chauffeur once again.

"Will you be needing anything after I bring Lady Sybil home, sir?"

"No, thank you, Branson. Lady Mary and I have all our things."

Maxwell approached them, holding Sybil's coat and hat. She went past Tom, not looking at him, and began to put them on. He kept his eyes trained on Mr Matthew's face.

"Lord Grantham said to tell you that he'll be by in the morning before church, to check on Lady Edith," Tom said.

"And to collect us, I imagine," Mr Matthew said.

"That's a good idea," Sybil observed. "That way, Marsters will remain here in case Edith needs anything."

"That was Lord Grantham's idea," Tom said. He gave Mr Matthew a nod and turned to Sybil. "If you're ready, my lady."

She gave him a brief nod and he went out ahead of her.

Sybil turned to Matthew.

"Good night," she said warmly. "Thank you for seeing me out. I'm so glad that you'll be in England for the next few months, even if you can't be with us for the whole of it. Cousin Isobel and Mary are so happy I think they'll burst."

"I know. It's a welcome reprieve." Matthew smiled at her. "Good night."

When she went out, she saw that Branson was beside the car, holding the door open for her, standing straight and sharp as usual. His face was expressionless and he didn't meet her eyes. She hated it when he played the part of a chauffeur who was no more a person than the motor he drove, and she knew that he was doing it now as a message to her for curbing him earlier. She climbed in without a word and sat down, straightening her gown as he closed the door and went round the front of the car.

They pulled out of the drive of Locksleigh House, the only sounds the rumbling of the motor and the crunch of gravel under the tyres. The car was soon on the road that crossed Sir Anthony's property and would take them into Downton village, and Sybil sat quietly in the back seat, her hands resting on her handbag as she gazed out the window at the darkened landscape.

She was weary, now that the day's excitement was behind her, and she looked forward to peeling off her corset and stretching out in bed in a warm nightgown, to steal as many hours' sleep as she could until she rose at dawn to get ready for her shift at the hospital. The long days when the family held soirées and fundraising concerts were tiring, but she wouldn't have traded her life now for anything. She felt useful, and she had a purpose, and she went to sleep knowing that she'd helped. That counted for something, even if the work was hard.

In the darkness, she couldn't see Branson's eyes when he looked at her in the rear-view mirror, but she knew when his mood had shifted—there was something indefinable in the set of his shoulders—and she looked at the back of his head. She found his presence comforting even when he was piqued with her, for he always listened and he always took her seriously. She smiled quietly to herself, remembering his rushed and impassioned declaration a few months earlier, when he'd brought her to the auxiliary nurse training hospital.

They'd not spoken of it afterwards, but it remained always between them, this secret confession. She knew that he took her continued silence, her refusal to tell her family about his shocking breach of propriety, as a tacit approval of him. It wasn't that at all, she told herself. She didn't fancy him. She just thought it would be terribly unfair to sack a good man simply because he'd fallen in love with someone he ought not to have.

And then she thought about  _ought_  and  _should_  and why and why not, and she wondered if any of it was right. There were reasons why the classes didn't mix, practical reasons. Could love really overcome them? Real life wasn't like the novels. Mary and Matthew seemed happy, but their situation was very different. Matthew had fit easily into the role of a gentleman. But unlike Branson, he had never been working class.

Branson would never be accepted by her family, and could she bear that? What would her life be like, no longer able to take money for granted, no longer welcomed among her old friends, no longer able to work as a nurse merely because she believed in the cause, but because if she didn't, she wouldn't be able to eat?

And when her thoughts took that turn, she grew uncomfortable and she wondered why she was even thinking about such things. Indeed, not a day had passed since Branson's declaration that she  _hadn't_  thought of them.

She wasn't sure how she felt about Branson yet—although she knew how she  _ought_  to feel—but she knew she wasn't ready to begin anything with him or with anyone else. Her duties at the hospital required all of her energy and attention and she had no use for distractions right now. Perhaps when the war ended...

"How is she?" Branson asked quietly, breaking into her thoughts. "Lady Edith."

Sybil looked up. "Tired. Worried."

"About Sir Anthony," Branson said with a nod. Sybil looked back out the window, but aside from shadows and the silhouettes of trees, there wasn't much to see.

"Yes."

They went on in silence once more, and when they had passed through the village and driven on to the road that led to Downton Abbey, Branson cleared his throat.

Sybil automatically glanced at the rear-view mirror, but of course she still couldn't see his eyes.

"Did you mean it when you said that you couldn't go back to your life before the war?" he asked, referring to their brief conversation that afternoon when he'd come by the hospital with a lunch basket from her mother.

She lifted her chin, partly dreading and partly curious about what he might say next.

"Yes, I did."

"What do you think you'll do after the war?" he asked.

Sybil frowned.

"They won't need all the auxiliary nurses once it's over," he added.

She looked at the pool of light that spread in front of the car. Everything outside of it was hidden in shadow.

"What will you do?" she asked, instead of answering him. "You've said that you won't be a chauffeur forever."

He sat up straighter. "I have a plan."

She smiled, but did not laugh. "Of course you do."

"What does that mean?" he asked, and there was slightly defensive tone in his voice.

She rolled her eyes. "Only that I expected nothing less," she answered.

His cheek changed shape and she knew he was grinning.

She smiled and looked out the window again, watching as her home came into view, its warm lights welcome in the darkness.

* * *

"I think she's rather extraordinary, actually," Matthew said, climbing into bed beside Mary. "All three of you are. Sybil is always willing to try to new things, Edith is a force to be reckoned with, and you have a real talent for assessing people and seeing what's important in a complex situation." He chuckled. "God only knows what you'd do if you three went into business together."

"Three women going into business together?" Mary scoffed. "The war hasn't changed things  _that_  much. You must be mad."

"Certainly not. And it's not a new idea. The woman in Proverbs 31 ran her own business."

Mary's eyes narrowed. "Proverbs? I don't recall that. I recall things like, 'Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies.' and other such charming sentiments."

"Yes, but she buys fields and plants vineyards and sells the things she makes. That sounds to me like a woman running a business." He grinned. "And you  _are_  worth far more than rubies."

Mary looked away with a small smile and adjusted the blankets. "I still say that Edith is behaving oddly. She wanted to mend our fences."

Matthew frowned. "How is that odd? That sounds perfectly reasonable to me."

"Since when? Darling, it's  _Edith_."

Matthew gave her a look. "Has it occurred to you that she might not enjoy your rivalry as much as you seem to?"

Mary smirked. "Of course it has. Why do you think I do it?"

Matthew's frown was sharp. "You really can be horrid sometimes."

"So you've said. But you love me."

He rolled towards her. "I do, and I always will. But I think you should mend your fences. You don't know what's coming. Perhaps she senses something. It seems to me that this pregnancy is harder on her than her first one was. At least, Mother is a little more concerned for her this time."

Mary frowned, considering this. It was easy to forget that even now, with all the advances in medicine, women still died in childbirth. Although she now found herself looking forward to having a child to share with Matthew, the prospect of such a happy time ending so terribly made her heart tighten in her chest. She didn't want to think about it.

"Besides," Matthew continued, his voice quieter now. "She hasn't heard from Anthony in almost three months. The post isn't usually delayed that long."

Mary looked at him, her worry shooting to the surface again. "If something awful had happened, they'd have sent a telegram."

"If they knew about it."

"But even if he were missing in action, they'd have told her."

Matthew's gaze became unfocused for a moment. "He might be behind enemy lines."

Mary frowned. "But even if he were a prisoner—"

"No," Matthew said. "He might be there on purpose."

Mary's eyes narrowed. "On purpose? What do you mean?" She stared at him and he looked back at her, waiting. She gave a small gasp and covered her mouth with her hand, then drew it away. "You mean that he might be gathering information?"

Matthew nodded, lowering his voice still further. "Of course we can't know for sure, but I suspect that he's in the intelligence service. I saw a naval medal in the library, above his desk. And he's not in uniform, but he's clearly being called away for the war effort and he's always been evasive whenever I've asked him about it."

"Sir Anthony Strallan, a spy?" Mary gave a soft giggle. "You can't be serious. And why are you whispering?"

Matthew chuckled and spoke normally again. "I don't know. Why are you?"

"Because I don't want Edith to find out that we know she's married to the Scarlet Pimpernel." Mary was still giggling.

"Oh, I love that novel," Matthew sighed. "It's so romantic. I've always wanted to see the play."

Mary smirked. "You are so soppy."

Matthew gave her a half-hurt, half-amused look, which quickly turned mischievous as he reached for her. "Is it so wrong of me to like a story about a husband and wife who fall passionately in love?"

He nuzzled her neck as his hand grazed over the curve of her bottom and he soon had her giggling again as he licked the sensitive skin along the underside of her jaw. She squirmed and then sighed in pleasure, reaching up to run her hands into his hair and pull him closer. They kissed warmly, tasting one another and relaxing against each other's bodies.

"Would you like to...?" she murmured.

"Yes, please," he answered with a rumble, and captured her mouth with his own. She gave a small moan and hooked her leg over his, feeling herself quickly warming and growing sensitive to his touch. Her body began to ache for his. She slipped her hand over the front of his trousers and cupped him, drawing an open-mouthed groan from him, and she smiled. He was quickly becoming ready and she was thrilled by how easily he responded to her.

She pulled away and sat up, pushing back the covers, and she started to pull her nightgown over her head. He followed suit, getting out of bed and stripping, and then they were together again, their bodies eager and ready and their mouths hungrily tasting and teasing each other. Their sighs and smiles mixed together and she deliberately mussed his hair, enjoying the look of him like this, especially when she knew it was due to her attentions. He paused and closed his eyes with a sigh as her fingers worked over his scalp.

When he opened his eyes again, he reached for the ribbon that held her braid in place and he tugged it down. Then, with a smile, he took a long moment to fully free her hair. She lay happily, watching him work and letting her eyes travel over the lean, muscular planes of his soldier's body. Gone were the softened places from before the war, and although she might have thought him a little too thin now, she couldn't help admiring the way he moved and the long, beautiful lines of his torso. She grinned and tightened her leg around him, and she took the opportunity to enjoy the firm curve of his backside. He smiled down at her, his muscles flexing under her palm, and she hummed.

He finished freeing her hair and his hand curved under her head, cradling it as he met her for a long kiss.

"God, I love you," he breathed against her skin, and she squeezed her eyes closed and held him.

"I love you, too, darling. More than I can believe, sometimes."

"Now who's being soppy?" he murmured, running his hand softly over her breast. Her nipples tightened at his light touch.

"I don't care," she said, and she pushed against him.

He acquiesced with a contented sigh, rolling on to his back, and she quickly climbed down and took hold of him. He closed his eyes, letting out a soft groan as her tongue ran up his length, and his hips twitched. She continued, raising her eyes to watch him as he tossed his head, his whole body straightening and then pushing up slightly to meet her. She so dearly loved the sounds he made and the way he seemed entirely at her mercy in these moments; the experience sent a jolt of arousal straight through her and she couldn't wait to take him. She rose up and climbed atop him.

He opened his eyes and held her hips as she positioned herself. When she settled down on to him, he arched up to meet her with a groan of pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut as he pushed his head back against the pillow. She was perfectly comfortable and she moved slowly, watching his eyelids flutter as his mouth remained open. She grinned. He was so beautiful and he was all hers.

She bent down and nibbled at his lips, still moving her body as he kissed her. They moved together easily, unrushed, and he played with her breasts, finally teasing at her nipples. She gave a small moan and squeezed him with her inner muscles, and he hummed in response. His strong hands moved up her back, making her arch towards him, and he pulled her down and lifted his head to suckle on her breasts as she squirmed in pleasure. They played together in this fashion for a short while and then he paused and turned his head to glance at the side of the bed, a curious expression on his face.

"What is it?" she asked.

"This bed is higher than our bed at Crawley House, isn't it?"

Mary sat up straight, disappointed at the seemingly random turn of events. She couldn't care less about the relative heights of the beds.

But then, he'd never asked a question during their lovemaking that didn't have  _some_  purpose, and it was usually a very pleasurable one.

She tilted her head, curious, and looked at the edge of the bed. "I suppose. Why does it matter?"

He gave her a slow smile and then his hands on her hips urged her to get up. She pushed off of him and let him roll away from her. Rising, he stood at the side of the bed, inspecting its height relative to himself, and then a wicked grin grew on his face. She was already wet and warm and she felt herself growing more so at his expression, but she was annoyed that he'd stopped her pleasure to inspect the bed.

"Come here," he said.

She pursed her lips and looked up at him as a sudden playful, rebellious urge rose in her. "Make me."

She was on her knees and she made to twist and scurry away from him, but he was too quick for her. His arm came around her waist and he caught her with a growl, pulling her back towards him as she gave a laughing squeal.

"Shhh!" he commanded, and she subsided, still grinning.

He had one foot still on the floor and his other leg was now kneeling on the bed beside her. He had pulled her bottom firmly against himself, one of his hands anchored against the front of her hip and his other arm wrapped around her chest.

Slowly, keeping his hand firmly pressed against her hip, he moved his other arm down until that hand was cupping her breast. Then, as his fingers played with her nipple and she pulsed and pushed back helplessly against him, he murmured in her ear, with a satisfied smile in his voice, "You're not going anywhere, darling."

She felt a small shiver of anticipation and grinned.

"Now," he said, "move back towards me—slowly—until you're standing beside the bed."

This time she obeyed, her body eager for him. He was still behind her, and he bent her over gently, encouraging her to put her hands on the mattress. This bed really was higher than their bed at Crawley House, or even her old bed at Downton Abbey. The top of the mattress pressed comfortably against the front of her upper thighs.

He slid into her and she squeezed her eyes closed and gave a small moan.

He made a knowing, pleased sound and bent down behind her, kissing her between her shoulder blades and moving slowly.

"Is this all right?" he asked.

"I like it."

"Good." And he pulled back, standing upright. His hands roamed over her bottom slowly, caressing it as he moved within her.

God, she was so swollen and alive tonight! Matthew's every stroke was a renewed pleasure. She loved it when she felt like this, when  _he_  felt like this.

He gave a sudden forceful thrust and she gasped, her body rocking forward—but not as far forward as usual: she was trapped against this higher bed. His thrust went deep and she groaned and dropped her head. He chuckled.

Her breathing began to speed up as she realised what he had planned, and she braced her arms against the bed, taking a fistful of the sheets in each hand. As she'd expected, his idly roaming hands quickly found their way to the front of her hips, and he began to pound into her. Her body quickly went from pleasantly aroused to overwhelmed with pleasure and she moaned and gasped for breath, her heart beating wildly. A small scream began somewhere in the back of her throat, rising out of her with a sudden shocking intensity as every nerve ending in her body exploded, radiating outward from her core. She pulsed with it and his pounding continued, drawing out her crescendo until she was fully finished and suddenly trembling and exhausted, her remaining moan becoming a half-sobbing laugh of disbelief.

He slowed and stopped and bent over her, and she could feel his laboured breathing against her skin. He was a little out of breath as he spoke.

"Are you all right, darling? You've never made  _that_  sound before..."

She released a shaky laugh. "Yes. Oh, God... _yes_."

His soft laugh of relief made her sigh, and she turned her head to nuzzle his cheek, giving him a tired kiss before dropping her head again. Her arms and legs trembled and ached and she just wanted to collapse and lay as limp as a rag.

He seemed to sense this, for he pulled out of her and stood back, laughing softly as she climbed up and flopped unceremoniously on to the bed, her head not even on the pillow but merely beside it. She felt the mattress dip as he climbed up beside her and then he settled down, his body warm against hers.

"That was good, I take it," he said dryly, his voice a low rumble.

She gave a short laugh, her eyes still closed. "Don't let it go to your head, darling," she breathed.

"Too late," he murmured, his face close by, and his hand drifted over her belly.

"Oh, God..." she said. "What  _was_  that?"

"A good idea," Matthew answered, settling his lips near her ear. Her body was too heavy to process the contented shiver that ran through her and she just lay there and basked in the warm relaxation. "From Him, incidentally."

She smirked. "You give Him entirely too much credit. That was all you."

He just laughed.

"What about you?" she asked, when she eventually opened her eyes. She had not felt the usual movements from him that indicated his own loss of control.

"I'm ready whenever you are."

"Mmmm." She turned slightly towards him with a sleepy grin. "I'm ready."

"Good," he said, and immediately rose up and knelt before her. He remained kneeling as he entered her, not straightening out over her yet. He pushed aside the pillow that was next to her head and sat back on his haunches, thrusting slowly and stroking the undersides of her thighs with his hands, lifting her knees to either side of him as his eyes roamed over her body. She watched him enjoying himself and smiled, feeling relaxed and sated and content and happy.

Soon enough, he was ready and she welcomed his weight, grasping his backside firmly and putting the last of her energy into matching him. His mouth fell open as he thrust and she smiled, knowing when he was close.

"Yes, Matthew..." she whispered in encouragement.

Her body was riding a second rise, and it echoed the first one pleasantly as he moved within her. She moaned and felt him push hard, his whole body tightening, and as he followed his body's instincts and finally finished, her head fell back and her eyes closed and she relaxed into the warm yellow light and held him close.

They dozed for some time, still together, and when she next awoke, she rubbed his back and he roused. He gave a slight groan and rolled off of her. He lay with his eyes closed, limp and smiling softly, and she kissed his lips.

"That was lovely, darling, thank you," she said. "You leave me a very happy wife."

"And we still have tomorrow," he murmured sleepily.

She laughed. "True. I look forward to it."

"If I have anything left, it's yours," he mumbled.

He half-sat up, groaning softly again, and slowly rolled off the bed to gather his pyjamas. She did the same, and when they finally settled back together under the covers, they quickly fell asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

Before going down to breakfast the next morning, Mary knocked softly on Edith's door.

"Edith, it's Mary. May I come in?"

She heard a muffled assent and pushed open the door. Edith was sat up in bed, her breakfast tray nestled in front of her protruding belly. She was cradling a mug and she smiled when Mary came in.

"Hello, dear," Mary said in a businesslike tone. "How are you feeling?"

Edith smirked at her. "Don't start with the endearments. They don't suit you."

"Oh good," Mary replied, settling herself on the edge of the bed. "They don't suit you, either."

Edith just shook her head and hid a smirk in her mug. Mary suspected that Matthew was wrong about how much Edith enjoyed sparring with her.

"Truly, though, how are you? Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," Edith said, setting the mug on her belly. They sat in an awkward silence for a long moment and then Edith added, "I saw him last night."

Mary frowned. "Who?"

"Anthony. He's been hurt. In some dark place." Edith said this with such a matter-of-fact air that Mary blinked. She wondered if perhaps the stress of everything hadn't done more damage to Edith than anyone realised. Edith watched Mary's face and smirked. "I'm not crazy."

Mary raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you quite certain?"

Edith looked away, her expression haunted.

"Perhaps it was just a dream," Mary suggested, trying to be conciliatory. She had, on occasion, had vivid and intense dreams about Matthew while he was away, although she'd never given them a second thought before.

"During dinner, while I was wide awake?" Edith asked. "That seems unlikely."

"But you fainted," Mary pointed out. "Perhaps it was during—"

"No," Edith said, her voice firm. "I saw him  _first_. And then I fainted."

Mary frowned and looked away.

"You don't believe me."

"What I believe isn't important," Mary said, trying to keep her tone gentle, despite her irritation with Edith's dramatic bid for attention. "You're understandably worried about him and you're getting yourself worked up. You've been overexerting yourself. You must wait patiently. Papa will telephone the War Office and you'll have proper news soon enough."

Edith nodded unhappily and looked down. Mary felt a stab of regret and she reached out to touch Edith's hand. Edith looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry," Mary said. "I don't know what you saw. I just don't want you to worry."

Edith gave her a tight smile. "But how can it be helped? How would you feel if you hadn't heard from Matthew in almost three months?"

"Petrified," Mary whispered.

Edith's chin trembled and Mary impulsively squeezed her hand.

"You won't be left to face this alone, I promise you," Mary said.

Edith swallowed and looked at her, pressing her lips together. She gave a quick nod.

"I'll make sure Papa telephones you by this afternoon," Mary added.

"Thank you." Edith's voice was thick.

Mary nodded, gave Edith's hand a final press, and rose, wishing that she could give her sister some assurances. She walked to the door and opened it, looking at Edith one last time before she stepped out. Edith's hand was resting on her belly and she was staring towards the window, her face drawn and pale. Mary turned away and went out, unsettled.

She started to turn towards the stairs but was stopped by the sound of a young child's laughter.

"Again!" the little voice commanded. "'gain!"

Mary smiled at the sound of Harry's demands and decided she would go into the nursery to bid him a good morning. Her feet slowed outside the open door, however, when she heard Matthew's voice respond. She had thought that he'd gone down to breakfast.

"This little piggy went to market...and this little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And  _this_  little piggy went 'wee! wee! wee!'—" at this, Harry shrieked with laughter, "—all the way home!"

Mary looked into the nursery and found Matthew sitting cross-legged on the floor beside a rolling, giggling little boy. Matthew finished tickling his nephew and pulled his hand back with a grin.

Harry immediately sat up. "'Gain!" he demanded.

"Master Harold," his nanny said. "That is quite enough. Your Uncle Matthew is waiting to go down to his breakfast."

"No! No! 'Gain!" Harry commanded, giving Matthew a stern look.

Matthew exchanged a chagrined smile with the nanny and Mary before looking down at Harry again.

"I've created a monster," he observed fondly.

Harry nodded. "Monst'. Again!"

"All right, one last time," Matthew said.

"Yay! Piggy!" Harry exclaimed, clapping, and he held out his bare foot towards Matthew.

So Matthew repeated the nursery rhyme, tugging each of Harry's toes in time with the words, and again elicited shrieks and giggles from Harry on the last line. Mary couldn't help grinning and her heart squeezed at the sight. Of course Matthew wasn't worried about becoming a father. What reason would he have to be worried? He was a natural with children. She watched him take his leave of Harry, whose happy giggles quickly turned to cries of disappointment when Matthew rose to his feet.

Harry clung to Matthew's leg and the nanny started to reach for him, but Matthew held out a hand to stay her and picked up the boy.

"Harry," Matthew said, his face and voice serious. "You must obey your nanny and your mama. Do you understand?"

"'stand," Harry echoed, smiling.

"I'm not sure he does," Mary said dryly.

"That's all right," Matthew answered, still looking at Harry. "I'm going down to breakfast. You eat your porridge for Nanny, yes?"

Harry nodded and looked away, clearly unhappy.

"There's a good chap," Matthew said, setting him down slowly. "Good-bye."

Harry pushed his lip out and crossed his arms angrily, turning away and refusing to answer. Mary and Matthew suppressed smiles as Matthew crossed to her.

"Good-bye, Harry," Mary said, but Harry just renewed his piqued posture.

"Aren't you going to say good-bye to your Aunt Mary?" Matthew asked.

"No." Harry pouted.

"Master Harold!" Nanny said.

"It's all right." Mary smiled, and she saw Harry turn to watch her and Matthew walk away. Harry burst into a new flood of tears and Nanny bent to comfort him.

As they started across the gallery, Mary said, "I saw that the  _abécédaire_  you sent him for Christmas was open on the nursery floor. He must like it if he's still reading it months later."

Matthew beamed proudly. "Nanny Olsen said that it's his favourite book."

"That's more than I can say for Edward, unfortunately," Mary said dryly.

Matthew looked at her with a frown. "Really? Have you read it to him?"

"Of course I have," she replied. "I brought it to him at Christmas and read it to him directly after I presented it."

"And didn't he like it?"

Mary smirked. "He enjoyed it well enough until we reached  _pomme_ , and then he insisted that I was reading it wrong, because a picture of an apple is clearly supposed to accompany an 'A', not a 'P'."

Matthew chuckled. "Why didn't you tell me about that in your next letter?"

"And make you feel rubbish at giving gifts, because he threw it across the room? Why ever would I do that in a letter? I'd much rather tell you in person."

Matthew shot her an amused, chagrined, and reprimanding look that quickly settled into a confident smile.

" _You_  don't seem to think I'm rubbish at giving gifts."

Mary just smiled demurely at him. He knew well enough what she thought of his skills in that arena.

"He's a good lad," he said to Mary as they descended the stairs. "They both are. And clever, too."

Mary nodded. She was prouder of her nephew and her brother and more fond of them than she would have expected. She could easily imagine the two of them getting up to all sorts of trouble in a few years' time.

She wondered if she and Matthew would soon have another little one to contribute to the play group. After last night's enjoyments, she certainly hoped so. Her smile widened.

Matthew glanced at her, smiling as he met her eyes, but he didn't speak. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

* * *

Mary was nursing her second cup of coffee and watching two blue tits fluttering from branch to branch in the tree outside the window, twittering cheerfully, when Robert walked into the morning room at Locksleigh House.

"Lord Grantham," Maxwell announced, before returning to his post beside the sideboard.

Matthew looked up from  _The Times_  with a smile, quickly folding the newspaper and setting it aside.

"Good morning," Mary said to her father.

"Good morning," he replied, stopping beside the table. "How has the night been?"

"There were no further incidents," she answered. "Although..."

"Edith has  _not_  been behaving oddly." Matthew gave her an amused look as he pulled his serviette off his lap and laid it on the table.

"I spoke to her this morning," Mary said, shooting him a sharp glance. She turned to her father. "She's understandably very worried about Anthony. I think it all might be taking a toll on her."

Matthew frowned in concern. "What did she say?"

Mary shook her head, looking away. "Nothing of note."

She lifted her mug to her lips, taking a sip and avoiding Matthew's eyes. The coffee had grown tepid and she set it down.

"I telephoned Shrimpie this morning," Robert said. "He promised to look into it immediately." He looked at Mary. "Do you think she might be ready for me to see her?"

Mary nodded and rose. "I'll go up and tell her you're here."

Matthew stood as she left the room and Robert turned to him.

"Oddly how?" Robert asked, his eyes narrowed.

Matthew gave a small smile. "Mary said that Edith tried to mend their fences last night."

Robert's eyebrows rose. "That  _is_  odd."

"Oh, not you, too."

"If you had lived with them for the past two decades, you wouldn't dismiss it so easily."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head. "It's long past time for them to make peace."

Robert gave a chagrined tilt of his head, acknowledging the point. He looked up as Maxwell moved away from his place by the sideboard.

"Are you and Lady Mary finished with breakfast, Captain Crawley?" the butler asked Matthew.

"We are," Matthew answered. "It was excellent, thank you."

Maxwell gave him a nod.

"Maxwell," Robert said, his tone thoughtful. "You aren't required to answer this, of course, but has Lady Edith been running the place tolerably well in Sir Anthony's absence?"

Maxwell paused with the saucers in his hands. "She has been, yes. More than 'tolerably', if I may say so." Robert nodded slowly, and Maxwell looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps if she weren't...in her condition...things might be easier on her."

"Of course," Robert agreed, frowning now. "It's difficult for her."

Maxwell gave him a polite smile and continued clearing the table.

"I'll collect our things," Matthew said, starting towards the door.

"Maxwell, have Thornton come see me tomorrow, at his earliest convenience," Robert said. Matthew turned and frowned slightly at his father-in-law.

Maxwell paused, his eyes flickering uncertainly between Matthew and Robert, and then he gave Robert a slight bow. "Of course, my lord."

Matthew would have broached the topic with Robert when they went out into the main hall, but Edith was coming down the stairs to greet them and his concerns were soon forgotten in the flurry of solicitous inquiries.

* * *

On the last evening of Matthew's leave, he, Mary, and Isobel were reading quietly in the sitting room at Crawley House when they heard a motor pull up outside. They all looked up in surprise and they heard Molesley move to the front door and open it. A moment later, Robert appeared in the doorway, still wearing his coat and cap.

"Cousin Robert," Isobel said, rising in concern. "What brings you by at this hour?"

"Edith's had word of Anthony!" Robert exclaimed, smiling.

Matthew and Mary rose with exclamations of happiness.

"It's good news, I take it?" Isobel asked.

"Yes, he's on his way home, to stay this time. He sent her a telegram. He's been wounded, but he's alive and eager to see his family."

"Of course he is," Matthew said, but although he was smiling, the look he exchanged with Robert indicated that he understood that something was amiss.

"What a relief," Mary said.

"Yes," Isobel added. "He'll be here for the birth!"

"I wanted to give you the news before you left," Robert said, smiling at Matthew and pushing aside their silent concerns. They would deal with whatever came. "Enjoy your tour of the northern counties."

Matthew chuckled. "I expect to, but it'll be some time before I do. We'll be starting our tour in Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire."

"Ah." Robert nodded. "When can we expect to see you again?"

"I'm not sure. It's up to the discretion of General Strutt, of course, but we'll probably reach Yorkshire by end of the summer."

"Well, I'm sure the place will look different by then, now that we're to be turned into a hospital," Robert said.

"A convalescent home," Mary corrected. "I'm afraid we've all bullied you into the whole thing. I hope you're not dreading it too much."

"Not dreading it, exactly, but it's a brave new world we're headed for, no doubt about that. We must try to meet it with as much grace as we can muster."

"Well said," Isobel agreed with a smile, and Robert returned it.

In an unusual show of emotion, he suddenly reached over the back of the sofa to clasp Matthew's hand.

"It's so good to have you home," Robert said. "Is there any chance it might be permanent? That we can count you out of danger? It would be such a relief."

Matthew smiled and squeezed back before releasing Robert's hand. "I wouldn't want that, I'm afraid. General Strutt has promised to get me back to France when he's done with me."

Robert nodded, meeting his gaze a moment, and then he looked away. "Well, I'm off. Good night."

"Good night," they echoed, and he left.

When they heard the door close and the motor start up again outside, Matthew turned and met his mother's and then Mary's gaze. He could see that his words had shocked them both, but he also knew that nothing he could say would help them to understand. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and kissed his mother's forehead. When he stood back and looked down at her, he saw her draw in a deep breath and let it out before she nodded.

Then, taking Mary's hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, meeting her eyes and asking for her forgiveness. Her eyes were wide as she searched his face, and she finally pressed her lips together and looked down. He tugged her hand gently and she lifted her head to meet his gaze again. When he smiled, he watched her match it, although he saw sadness in her eyes. He knew she wanted to protest, to try to convince him otherwise, but she held her peace and followed him silently as he led her out of the room.

They would have tonight, and he would be back again before he returned to France, and he would be spending at least three months more in the relative safety of England.

There was nothing for it but to carry on.


	22. Chapter 22

_Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of disturbing wartime imagery, racial slurs, strong language, references to prostitution, and character death._

* * *

_22_

_1 August 1917_

_My Dear Mary,_

_We're having great success in Lancashire_

* * *

The pen ran dry and Matthew lifted it from the paper and shook it in annoyance. He tried again, but only a thin scratch of ink came out. Sighing, he dropped the useless pen on the desk and pulled open the drawers, looking for an ink bottle to refill it. Finding none, he shoved his chair back and rose, going across the room to hunt through his drawer of personal items beside his bed. No, no ink there, either.

He dragged his kit out from beneath the bed, muttering imprecations under his breath. Where was a damn ink bottle when he needed one? He yanked clothes, his shaving supplies, his towel, a sheaf of papers, and his diary out of his kit, but the box with the spare pen and ink bottle was nowhere to be found.

He gave a growl and roughly upended the bag, emptying its contents on the bed and flinging items away as he hunted, his search becoming more frantic with each passing second.

"Where is the bloody thing?" he roared, recognising with a remote part of himself that he was overreacting to so small an inconvenience. It was just a  _pen_.

But he'd never given the location of his spare pen much thought before. He'd never had to. When he needed it, he'd always just turned to—

Matthew growled again and hurled the remaining items to the floor, furious.

* * *

**November 1914**

Matthew proudly took in the sight of his platoon as they stood at parade rest, their eyes fixed straight ahead. Forty-eight men in peak physical condition, their boots and brass shining, their jaws set with jaunty determination, and his four NCOs keeping them in line and awaiting his orders. They were bound for the Western Front, and would be entraining the next morning. Everyone had clean rifles, new equipment, and a full kit. The only remaining task was to defeat 'D' Company in the football match after supper.

Matthew grinned. "Dismissed!"

The men gave a happy roar and jogged off across the wide field towards the barracks, three of the NCOs shouting a regular cadence to keep them together. Sergeant Stevens, the most senior of them, came to stand by Matthew as the platoon left.

"Have you made your decision, sir?" he asked.

Matthew nodded. "I have. Private Davis."

Stevens quickly hid a grimace. "Very good, sir. I'll fetch him."

Matthew put out a hand. "No, I'll do that." He gave a chagrined smirk and started to walk in the direction of the barracks, Stevens falling into step beside him. "I'm afraid my quarters are rather a mess at the moment and I want you to make sure that the men we field this evening are the best we have."

Stevens chuckled. "My pleasure. I've already got several in mind."

"Excellent."

The discussion turned to the men's readiness and the transport schedule. When Matthew entered the barracks several minutes later, Stevens shouted, "Officer on the floor!" and all the men quickly leapt to attention, sliding off their bunks or standing up.

"At ease," Matthew said, peering amongst the men as he moved. "Ready for the match, then, Private...Makewell, is it?" he asked a young man.

"Yes, sir! We won't let you down tonight, sir!" Makewell beamed.

Matthew smiled and continued moving along the bunks. Some of the men had left their kit behind on their beds and were likely outside smoking or kicking a ball around in anticipation of the evening's entertainment.

"Where is Private Davis?" Matthew asked.

Again, the reaction from the men was an odd smattering of disgusted looks and sidelong glances. Matthew frowned.

"His bunk's just there," Pvt. Jones said with a gesture. "But he ain't in it."

Matthew looked at Jones with annoyance. That much was obvious. Why did the men seem reluctant to volunteer Davis's location? Nothing in Davis's brief interview had suggested that anything was amiss. If anything, he'd seemed a model soldier in all the training that Matthew had observed.

Stevens cleared his throat. "He's most likely out by the latrines, sir."

Matthew turned and stared at him. "'Out  _by_  the latrines?'"

"Bloody snipcock," someone nearby muttered  _sotto voce_ , and there was a smattering of ugly laughter. Matthew glanced around with a frown and the men quickly fell silent.

It wasn't an epithet that Matthew was familiar with, but he turned on his heel with a sinking feeling and strode out of the barracks. Stevens began barking the names of the privates that the platoon would be fielding for the football match.

Matthew stepped outside and shielded his eyes against where the sun hung low in the sky. Dusk would be falling soon. He walked around the corner of the barracks and indeed, there was a figure standing beside the outhouses. Matthew frowned. What man would willingly stand for so long beside a spot that reeked of human excrement?

As Matthew neared, he heard a low murmuring. He saw that Davis—for it  _was_  Davis—had some sort of odd little black box strapped to his head and his left arm, which he'd bared, was similarly bound. He had wrapped the black strap on his arm all the way down to his middle finger, and he stood now with his eyes closed, his lips moving quietly.

Matthew opened his mouth to hail the man, but as he took another step closer, he felt a sudden sense of weight that made him pause and remain silent.

Davis was chanting something to himself, something in a foreign tongue that gave Matthew a strange sort of chill. He stood and watched respectfully, listening. There was no hurry. The bugle for mess would sound shortly; until then, there were no demands on them. He could wait for Davis to finish, for it was clearly some form of religious observance.

Davis covered his eyes and recited a long passage that sounded as though it began with ' _something_ Israel', which was the only word that Matthew thought he recognised. It was then that he realised the nature of the man who was standing before him and the ugly epithet made a terrible sort of sense. Matthew's jaw worked as he narrowed his eyes.

When Davis finished his recitation, he removed the straps and boxes and wrapped them carefully, placing them in an embroidered bag. As he drew its string closed and turned, he gave a slight jump, then straightened and saluted.

"Lt. Crawley, sir! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there."

"At ease, Private." Matthew studied him as he returned the salute.

Davis swallowed and lifted his chin. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"No." Matthew cleared his throat. "I've just come to tell you that I've assigned you to be my soldier-servant."

Davis regarded him in careful silence before asking, "Still, sir?"

Matthew smiled and relaxed. "Do you have any reason to think I should reconsider my decision?"

"No sir!"

"Good. Walk with me, Davis." Matthew heard the bugle sound.

Davis quickly fell into step beside him as they strode towards the mess hall.

"Would you mind if I stowed this with my kit, sir?" he asked, gesturing with the embroidered bag. "I'd rather not bring it to a meal."

Matthew smoothly changed direction. "Of course." He glanced at the bag. "What is it?"

" _Tefillin_ ," Davis answered. He smiled down at the bag. "My wife made this for me." His fingers ran lightly over the unfamiliar lettering and then he looked up again. "Are you familiar with Deuteronomy, sir?"

Matthew smiled. "Somewhat."

"I wear this each day, if I can, in obedience to the instruction to bind His commands for a sign upon my hand and between my eyes."

Matthew blinked, recalling such a verse. It had not occurred to him that it would be interpreted so literally. He made a thoughtful noise and nodded as they entered the now-empty barracks, and he watched Davis put the  _tefillin_  in his kit.

"I take it you've been excluded and harassed."

Davis's face betrayed nothing. "It's nothing I can't handle, sir."

Matthew nodded, ashamed on behalf of his countrymen, then narrowed his eyes at Davis. "Why didn't you mention this in your interview? Your records indicate that you registered as 'Church of England'."

Davis stood straight and met Matthew's gaze without rancour. "I had to, sir. If I had given my true name and faith, they would have dismissed me from the recruiting station."

Matthew's eyebrows rose. "Surely not!"

Now Davis's expression turned hard. "It has happened to many of us. We have learned how to get past the...deterrents...to serve our King and Country."

"You said that you did not give your true name, either. What is it?"

Davis jutted out his chin. "Davidson, sir."

"'Samuel Davidson'," Matthew repeated. He gave Davis—Davidson—a brief nod and held out his hand. Davis eyed him a moment in surprise and then a warm smile broke across his face as he shook Matthew's hand. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Davidson," Matthew said. "I'm afraid that I shall have to go on calling you 'Davis'—"

"I would appreciate that, sir," Davis said quickly.

"But as I'm sure we'll be for it soon, I want you to know that you needn't hide anything from me. I won't ask you to report any harassment to me, as I'm sure that won't make your situation any easier—" Davis nodded, a glint of appreciation in his eyes at their shared understanding, and Matthew continued, "—but should you ever need space to pray, you need only ask."

"Thank you, sir."

Matthew nodded. "I also cannot excuse you from church parade."

"Of course not," Davis said. "I wouldn't expect you to." Then he grinned. "Actually, I rather enjoy it...the parts that I recognise, in any event."

Matthew chuckled as they made their way out of the barracks.

"I look forward to serving you, sir."

"And I look forward to serving with you, Private Davis."

* * *

**Late May 1915**

Although Matthew hated leaving Mary, his mother, and the relative peace of Downton behind, when he jumped down from the back of the lorry, it was with a sense of relief that he looked at the base camp. The sun shone brightly and there were men resting, others playing pontoon, and still others ribbing one another as they stood around a smoking field cooker. A company marched in the field beyond, their brass and rifles glinting in the sun. Aside from the continual rumble of heavy artillery fire that echoed from several miles away, it seemed a bustling and hopeful morning.

Matthew hefted his bag and smiled. There was a simplicity in the focus of military life, a well-understood structure, and a welcome ease in the company of other men. Women, as lovely as they were, tended to complicate things. He'd thought that he had been holding up rather well, all things considered, but the brief time at home had thrown his daily routines and habits of mind into sharp relief, not to mention reinvoking the painful sensation of being pulled away from Mary. He'd been in a sour mood initially, but after a day or two of travel on land and then a few hours spent contemplating the sea as the ship crossed the Channel, interspersed by conversations with God and his fellow soldiers, he'd been able to right himself.

Feeling certain of his place and purpose in the world once more, Matthew strode off towards Battalion HQ to report in.

* * *

**Ypres, June 1915**

The ground shuddered with the distant shelling as Davis stood outside Battalion HQ awaiting the orders he'd been sent for. He watched the flow of lorries and ambulances, noting with interest the presence of a woman driver in one of them. A Ford motor pulled up in the field across the makeshift road and a pair of padres emerged, their clerical collars flashing white in the morning sunlight. Davis admired these men, who more often than not could be found on the field of battle, always weaponless, as they ministered to the fallen soldiers, carrying those who might be saved to safety and returning to simply pray beside others who were too far gone, collecting their personal effects to return the items to their families.

As Davis's thoughts wandered thus, a sudden glint of light caught his eye and he squinted at the padres as they approached. Neither of them looked much like soldiers, despite their officers' uniforms. They both wore glasses and had neatly-trimmed beards; it was clear that neither was stationed with a unit. They were probably higher-ranking clergymen.

He idly scratched his jaw and then paused and blinked. Another flash of sunlight caught on the nearer padre's cap and Davis suddenly realised why: its surface was smooth, not engraved, and it was the  _Magen David_. He froze in surprise and stared at it.

"Good morning, Private!" the padre said, and Davis snapped to attention, giving the mysterious man a salute, which the padre returned as he smiled. Davis looked at the  _Magen David_  again as the padre said, " _Shalom_."

" _Shalom_ ," Davis repeated automatically, hoping he wasn't in shock and just imagining this man.

The padre's face lit up, as did the face of the man beside him. "I'm Rev. Michael Adler, Jewish Chaplain to His Majesty's Armed Forces, and this is Chief Rabbi Rev. Dr. Joseph Hertz—"

"—Hertz," Davis eagerly joined in as Adler spoke. "I've never met you, sir, but of course I've read your missives in the  _Chronicle_."

Hertz chuckled and shook his hand. " _Shalom_. It's good to meet you, Private...?"

"Davis—oh, er, Davidson, sir. Samuel Davidson. Of South Manchester Synagogue."

The three men exchange a brief look of understanding at the name change, but then Hertz narrowed his eyes.

"Samuel  _Davidson_ , is it? Were you ever a member of Fletchley Park in London?"

"I was," Davis replied, smiling. "I moved to Manchester three years ago."

"Were you the Davidson involved with Rabbi Levene's...?"

"Daughter," Davis answered quietly, his smile falling away as he met Hertz's gaze without flinching. "She is my wife."

"Ah," Hertz said.

"How fortuitous!" Adler inserted with cheerful obliviousness. "You know him?"

"After a fashion," Hertz replied, still looking at Davis, who merely lifted his chin.

The ground shook with more force than usual and the three men looked towards the front line. There was a distant grey haze of smoke that overhung the fields, marring the beauty of the otherwise clear spring morning. There were no birds overhead. It seemed such a shame.

Adler cleared his throat, sober again. "We're just here to see the line, to find more of our brethren and assess the state of things. We'll be holding services tomorrow evening. Is this Battalion HQ?"

"It is," Davis replied, his heart leaping at the thought of attending a service after spending so long in only private prayers. "I'm just awaiting orders. Our company is on the reserve line right now."

"Ah!" Adler said. "Would you be good enough to give us a tour?"

"If Lt. Crawley permits it," Davis replied, "I would be honoured."

"Excellent. I'll see to the arrangements." Adler nodded as he and Hertz stepped inside the  _mairie_  of Ypres.

* * *

Matthew stood overseeing the digging of a new latrine, making sure that the regularly-shuddering trench wall was being bolstered as the men progressed, when he saw Davis approaching with two officers—or, rather, padres—in tow. It was a bit odd to have two of them on the line, but Matthew welcomed the unexpected change of pace to relieve the thudding monotony of the morning. He slapped at a fly that tried to land on his neck.

"Reverends," he called with a grin, not straightening in respect, as he would otherwise have done. Davis and the padres were several inches shorter than him and he envied their ability to stand to their full heights in the trench. "A welcome sight, two—!"

The nearer padre held up a hand in greeting and Matthew blinked when he saw the Star of David on their caps, rather than the usual cross badges.

"—rabbis?"

"Yes," the first man said with a grin. The padre held out his hand and ignored the flies buzzing around them, unlike his companion, whose flared nostrils and mouth were pulled up in an expression of disgust at the smell. Matthew shook the men's hands as they made their introductions.

Noting Hertz's discomfited glance past him, Matthew gestured apologetically back towards the tarp-covered body that Sergeant Stevens was guarding from passersby. "A dead Frenchman, I'm afraid," he said. "We discovered him in the trench wall this morning. We're just waiting for the sanitaryman to return and collect him."

Hertz was making a visible effort to keep from covering his face. "What is that stinging smell?"

"Chloride of lime," Matthew replied. "It's the only way to keep the trench sanitary in the presence of a dead body."

From the look on Hertz's face, it was clear that he thought the trench far from 'sanitary', but he merely nodded and glanced around at the soldiers, who had paused in their digging to look at the new arrivals.

"We're searching for our co-religionists," Adler explained. "I've come to announce that we're holding services tomorrow evening in the church at the village. I'm hoping your batman can attend."

Matthew glanced at Davis as he accepted the packet of orders that the soldier-servant was holding out to him, and he saw the look of hope on Davis's face. Matthew gave Adler and Hertz a polite smile. "If our orders don't have us on the front line by tomorrow, then any of the men in my platoon who wish to can attend. If you'll just excuse me?"

"Of course," Adler said, and he turned to make small talk with Davis and the men who were digging, inquiring if they knew of any other Jews in their company.

Matthew gestured for Sergeant Stevens to take over supervision, then went down the line and ducked into his dugout. He lit a lamp and unfolded the orders, scanning them quickly. Their company would be relieving the men on the front line at 2.00 am. He jotted the necessary items in his notebook and tucked it back in his tunic again. He would need to confer with Capt. Warren and the flanking officers as soon as possible. The relief action would be conducted as quietly as they could manage so as not to tip off Jerry to the momentary weakness in the line and bring down a fresh barrage, so there was a great deal of work to do in readying everyone, distributing extra rations, inspecting the respirators, field dressings, and rifles, and making sure everyone was in place to move forward by midnight.

When he emerged from the dugout, he found Davis waiting outside with Adler and Hertz. Matthew handed the orders to his soldier-servant.

"Bring this to Capt. Warren and Lt. Middleton. I'll send a message down to Lt. Savage."

"We're moving out, sir?" Davis asked.

Matthew glanced at the padres and Adler grinned, pulling out an identical notebook from his breast pocket.

"Don't mind us, Lieutenant," he said. "I probably know more about troop movements than you do."

Matthew's eyebrows rose as he looked at the book and then glanced towards the German line. If that notebook was captured...

Adler chuckled again, showing Matthew a page. It was filled with unfamiliar scribbles.

"What is that, some kind of code?" Matthew asked, as Adler tucked it away.

"Not strictly speaking, no. It's Hebrew. I find that I rather need this information if I'm to conduct services along the line. I'm the only Jewish Chaplain at the moment."

"An oversight that will soon be rectified," Hertz said.

"Right." Matthew glanced at Davis before looking at Adler. "We're going to the front tonight. If you want to conduct a service for our company, I suggest that you hold it soon, and nearby. The men need to be back in place by 10.00 pm."

Adler gave a curt nod and held out his hand. "Thank you, Lt. Crawley. We'll do just that."

"If you'll follow me, sirs," Davis said, and the three men nodded to Matthew and continued down the line.

* * *

**November 1915**

Davis gave a great whoop of joy and Matthew looked up in surprise at his usually placid soldier-servant. Davis had leapt off his cot in their tent and was holding a letter, with a glowing smile on his face.

"Good news?" Matthew asked with a grin, from where he was stretched out on his cot, reading his own stack of post from home.

"It's a boy!" Davis whooped again, practically dancing.

"That's wonderful!" Matthew said, genuinely happy for Davis and hoping for such happy news someday soon, himself. Then Matthew frowned. "Wait...you haven't seen your wife since last October..."

Davis laughed and flopped back on to his cot, grabbing a pile of letters and waving them briefly. "They misdirected these. I was supposed to receive them three months ago."

Matthew chuckled. "I'm glad you finally did. Congratulations! What's his name?"

"Isaac Herman Davidson."

"Is this your first child?" Matthew asked.

Davis sat up. "No sir, my third. My daughter Rebekah was born in January 1914. My oldest son...in 1912."

Matthew tilted his head. Davis had once told him that he'd been wed in June 1912. Davis followed Matthew's thoughts and nodded, sober now as he looked down at the letter in his hands.

"Jonathan was born a month after we married," Davis said, meeting Matthew's gaze. "I am his father, but not by blood." Davis raised his chin. "Sarah has never told me who the father is; I suspect that she is protecting someone in her family. She is a selfless, extraordinary woman, Lt. Crawley. I know only that she did not have a choice in what happened to her."

Matthew set aside his letter from Robert and sat up. He regarded Davis for a long moment, considering whether he ought to speak.

When he finally did, his tone was quiet. "My wife did not, either."

Davis blinked and then his shoulders sagged a little. "Yours, too?"

Matthew nodded. "Although it was a guest of the family, not a member of it." His face twisted at the awfulness of what Davis was implying.

"I had not thought you had children, sir. You've never mentioned them."

"I don't," Matthew said.

Davis nodded, pressing his lips together.

"Congratulations on the birth of the little chap!" Matthew said with a smile, determined to dispel the dark mood that had settled over them. "I take it that everyone is round and rosy-cheeked?"

Davis laughed, relaxing. He grinned down at the letter. "They are now, with my steady pay." He grew serious again. "When we first came to Manchester, we had nothing and knew no one. I struggled to find work." He tucked the letter back into its envelope and picked up another, carefully slitting it open with his penknife. "I never much wanted to be a soldier, but the separation allowance is better than what we had before."

Matthew nodded. Many of the enlisted men regarded life in the Army as better than their previous civilian existence, which had been eked out amidst grinding poverty in the struggling economy before the War. The economy still wasn't the strongest, but at least soldiers were sheltered from much of that hardship, able to eat every day, usually having meat with each meal—granted, it was the monotony of bully beef and tins of American pork and beans, but it was food—and able to give their enlistment bonus and much of their pay to help feed their families. Even with the regular tours of duty in the trenches, most considered their lot to have improved.

Davis had returned to his letters and Matthew did the same, stretching out again and angling the paper to catch the light from the dim lamp. His thoughts drifted to Mary. He would be seeing her again soon! One more rotation through the lines and his next rest period would be his week-long leave. He was better prepared to make the transition to Downton this time and he was so eager to touch her again, to see her shining eyes and to feel her softness and warmth and passion. His body ached in anticipation and he closed his eyes. Would it be too much to hope that they might soon have happy news of their own? He grinned and looked forward to doing his utmost to ensure that they did.

* * *

**The Somme, July 1916**

"Sir?" Matthew asked, bone-weary and caked in mud, the cuts and burns on his neck smarting as his skin itched. Surely there might be a few hours' rest?

"Just get on with it, Lt. Crawley," Major Warren said sharply, his own expression exhausted. "You're leading a burial squad. Collect your men and as many picks, shovels, and stretchers as you can find. Rev. Crispin is assigned to your unit." Warren gestured and a padre with kind but tired eyes pushed up from where he'd been resting on a pile of crates.

There was no point in protesting, and Matthew did not have the energy for it even if he'd been able to think of something to say. He was numb and raw, and he stumbled out of the makeshift Battalion HQ and stared. He started to rub his eyes, but just ended up pushing flakes of dried mud into them. Cursing under his breath, he searched in vain for a clean scrap of cloth to get the vile stuff out of his eyes, which were now flooded with stinging tears.

It was a purely physiological reaction to the dirt. Tears themselves seemed inadequate to the task that lay before him and the extent of the desolation around him.

"Here," a voice said near him and he squinted in its direction. There was a scrap of white; Matthew took the handkerchief gratefully, wiping off his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw Crispin standing before him.

"You gather the lads," Crispin said quietly, holding up a petrol tin. "I'll find the picks and shovels. There's a stack of stretchers behind the field dressing station."

Matthew gulped down the petrol-smelling, tepid water and nodded gratefully, handing back the kerchief. He capped the tin and gave it to Crispin. "Have you done this before?"

"Many times," Crispin said grimly. He gestured with the many-pocketed sack that was slung across his body. "I'll go first, gather their personal effects, and then your men can put them in the ground. I'll say a brief prayer, and we'll move on to the next group."

There was a warbling whistle from an overhead shell, but the explosion was a hundred yards away and the men merely looked back at each other.

"Right," Matthew said, setting his jaw and straightening as best he could. There were a few of his men huddled together on the rise; he started off in their direction.

* * *

They'd lost more than three-quarters of their platoon and the company numbers were worse. As they picked their way among the craters and splintered trees and stepped gingerly around unexploded shells in the downpour, they stumbled over the bodies. English, Scots, South Africans, and Germans were all tangled together in the churned-up undergrowth, having fought for weeks for every last inch. The air was rank with the half-sweet, half-sickly smell of putrefying flesh mixing with the dank aroma of wet earth, the acrid sting of fresh wood, and the stale fumes of chlorine and tear gas and high explosives.

Crispin moved with quiet efficiency from one body to the next, going through the pockets and writing each man's name in his notebook, when he could. They gathered up the pieces and tried to identify what belonged to whom. They grunted as they fought to disentangle bodies stiff with rigor mortis. It became an awful routine, Matthew coordinating the digging of burial trenches here and there, pointing out a missing limb several yards away from a burned torso, wrapping the fallen soldiers in their army blankets or German groundsheets and helping his men to lay the wrapped bodies out beside one another in the trenches, making grave-marker crosses out of broken scraps of wood that were tied together with puttee wrappings or shoelaces or bits of wire. Pausing to catch his breath and listening to the padre, again and again.

"Blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours."

"Amen," came the weary chorus, and then the thud and spray of dirt.

And they moved on to the next patch of ground.

* * *

Somewhere in there, when he was beyond exhaustion and was sitting against a fallen tree beside his men, Matthew felt Davis press a warm tin cup and a lump of sodden biscuit into his hand. Matthew lifted his head, blinked, shook himself, and managed a grateful nod before swallowing the gloriously-hot tea and chewing on the tasteless, grainy, stale bread. How Davis had managed to warm up tea was beyond Matthew, but he was desperately grateful for it.

They sat in the grey twilight and looked at the shattered woodland and were unperturbed by the shaking of the ground from the continual thudding of the German five-nines.

* * *

In the end, they sent two men to the casualty clearing station with shell shock—or at least, more debilitating shell shock than the rest of them were staggering through. Everyone's hands were shaking and their faces were hollow. There was not much point in meeting each other's eyes, for all that one would find there was the same horror reflected back.

They had finally been relieved. Matthew was the last remaining officer in his company and after walking his men several miles to their billet and ensuring that everyone was accounted for and safe, he dragged his weary body into the back storeroom of the defunct factory where they were to sleep, allowed Davis to help him undress, and collapsed gratefully on to a pile of woven mats in the corner, unconscious before his head hit the rolled-up tunic he was using as a pillow. He was entirely unaware of Davis pulling a blanket over him a minute later.

* * *

He'd made the storeroom Company HQ until further orders arrived. They were to spend five days at rest and then they would be moving on to another location, joining up with the remnants of their battalion. He allowed a few minutes of grousing amongst his NCOs, with their frank disgust at how ill-conceived the tactics and strategy had been and how ill-prepared the distant generals seemed to be for waging a trench war. So little ground had been gained and for what? Their forces were vastly depleted and it had been to so little purpose. So many good men lost, they said.

Matthew listened but then sternly reined them in. It would not do to spend time questioning those in command. It was their job to serve and to do their fallen comrades the justice of rallying together and not allowing their sacrifice to be in vain.

It was with such empty words that he led his men, because someone must and he was the only one left who could, but privately he agreed with them and a deep anger burned in his soul.

* * *

**Paris, December 1916**

"No, you go ahead," Matthew said, smiling.

"Come with us, Crawley!" Lt. Hardy slurred slightly as he clapped Matthew on the back. "I've heard of a wonderful place just up the  _rue du Chat-noir_. It's the home of  _Le Bébé Eléphant!_  She's legendary! I'm sure she'll set you up just right."

"No, thank you." Matthew waved them off. "I have an errand to run. I'll see you back at base in the morning."

"I  _bet_  you will," Hardy leered, and Lt. Gross laughed.

"C'mon, Hardy, let's go find us some girls," Gross said. He waved at Matthew and the two officers continued on towards the  _maison tolérée_  that they'd been assured lay in that direction.

Matthew turned away with a thoughtful frown. He had a few hours in which to locate a children's bookshop and no idea where one might be found in the vast, winding network of Paris streets. He started to look about for a  _policier_ , but his eyes caught instead on the familiar, receding figure of Davis, who was walking alone.

Socialisation between ranks, particularly between officers and enlisted men, wasn't common, and for good reason, but Matthew didn't want to see Davis come to any harm, so he hurried after him. More than one soldier had been mugged or seriously injured while on leave and darkness would be falling soon. They could at least walk together for a short while, until they came to the more populated, and better lit, areas of the city.

Unexpectedly, Davis stepped off the pavement and entered a small public park, where he paused beside a tree and began to rummage in his sack. Matthew slowed, intrigued, until he recognised the familiar  _tefillin_  pouch that Davis drew from it. It was somewhat the worse for wear now, the embroidery missing in places, but Davis handled it reverently. He drew out the arm-strap and began unfurling it, then glanced up in surprise when he noticed Matthew's approach. Davis paused and frowned.

"Did you need something, sir?" It was an unspoken assumption that, while on leave, he was not expected to attend Matthew, but of course Matthew could command his soldier-servant at any time.

"No," Matthew replied with an apologetic smile, holding up a hand. "I just wanted to ensure that you weren't molested while you were at prayers."

Davis smiled, then glanced past Matthew with a look of confusion.

"They went to find a blue lamp," Matthew said with a shrug. "I'm on my own for the night." He gave Davis a sheepish grin. "I suppose that I'm hoping to avoid being molested, myself."

Davis nodded and gestured with his strap. "Would you care to join me, sir?"

Matthew blinked. "I, ah, don't know any Hebrew."

"That's all right. I have it on good authority that He's also fluent in English." Davis was grinning widely now.

With a chuckle, Matthew came to stand beside him. He bowed his head and listened as Davis affixed the  _tefillin_  and spoke his customary words. Matthew enjoyed the now-familiar sounds of his soldier-servant's prayers, and he admired how visibly and consistently Davis attended to his rituals. There was a quiet comfort in knowing that he still stood beside Matthew after all this time and was still holding firmly to his faith and his identity. Most of the men who had bullied him at the start of the war were gone now, in one way or another, and those few who remained treated him with the same respect as they treated everyone else. There was no longer any question of his courage or his physical abilities to withstand the rigours of war. He had had his share of wounds and never complained. He'd carried his fellow soldiers to safety and had more than once charged straight into German artillery fire alongside the rest of them. Aside from the oddity of his prayers and occasional personal habits, he was just one of the lads, a proud member of the Duke of Manchester's Own. And who  _wasn't_  odd in one way or another? War made strange bedfellows; everyone carried on in their own way.

Davis was reaching the end of his recitation and Matthew, belatedly, realised that he ought to have been praying rather than meditating on his soldier-servant.

 _Thank You for Davis_ , Matthew thought.  _Thank You for allowing us to remain together. Please allow us both to return home to our families, alive and well. Bless Mary, and bless Mother, and Robert, and the whole family. And if it's not too much to ask, bring an end to the war soon. Please._

Davis had ceased speaking; Matthew murmured a quiet "Amen" and then stood waiting as Davis put his phylacteries away.

"Where are you headed?" Matthew asked.

"I'm not sure, sir," Davis answered with a shrug, as they walked across the frost-covered grass. "I have only a vague request from my wife to find her 'something nice from Paris' and a series of impossibly-specific demands from my children for all manner of things that cannot be sent in the post."

Matthew laughed. "Such as?"

"Ponies. Me. The prophet Elijah."

"What?" Matthew was still laughing.

Davis chuckled. "When Sarah taught them about  _Pesach_ —Passover—Rebekah became obsessed with the empty chair. She started talking to the prophet and she still occasionally requests that I bring him with me again when I next come home."

"You brought him with you the last time?"

"Apparently." Davis gave Matthew a sidelong glance. "Perhaps I did."

Matthew nodded, still smiling. "'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength...'"

Davis grinned and nodded. "And where are you headed, sir?"

"I'm on a similar errand to find something for Mary, and I want to send Edward and Harry each an  _abécédaire_."

Davis's eyes lit up. "A first-rate idea, and I know just the place!"

* * *

The bells over the door jingled as Davis pushed it open, briefly running his fingers over something set in the doorframe and then lifting them to his lips. Matthew glanced at the spot as he passed it and saw a small case affixed in a hollow there. He blinked, intrigued, and looked up as the elderly shopkeeper greeted them with a cheerful " _Shalom!_ "

Ah, so this was how Davis knew of this place: its proprietor was Jewish. Matthew looked at his surroundings with interest, already seeing several titles that he wanted to browse, but he knew they would not be able to stay and explore for as long as he wished. It was clear that the shopkeeper was tidying up in anticipation of closing soon; he had a broom in his hands.

" _Shalom_ ," Davis replied slowly, also looking around. " _Bonjour. Vendez-vous livres pour enfants?_ "

" _Oui_ ," the shopkeeper replied. " _En fran_ _ç_ _ais et en_ _hébreu._  But not in English."

"That's all right," Matthew said. " _Je cherche un abécédaire._ "

The shopkeeper lit up, leaned his broom against a shelf, and moved across the room to a display near the window. " _Oui,_ _monsieur._  These are new, they are arrived only this week!"

Matthew followed him and picked up a copy. His eyes fell on the title: " _Abécédaire de la Grande Guerre 1914-1916: pour les enfants de nos soldats_ ", and he opened it with a kind of dread. His heart clenched painfully as he flipped through the pages and saw that each letter of the alphabet told the story of some aspect of the war. The children of France could hardly avoid knowledge of the war—it had torn through their homeland, displaced tens of thousands of them, and left many without fathers or brothers—but to see it in this form, as though even the littlest ones would be made to learn the words  _tranch_ _é_ _e_  or  _lance-bombe_...

He snapped the book closed and shook his head. " _Pas tout à fait._ _Avez-vous un autre?_ "

Davis gave a sigh as he flipped through his own copy. "No. This won't do at all."

" _Non, j'en ai d'autres bien sûr_ ," the shopkeeper said quickly, gesturing for them to follow him towards the back of the shop.

There they found a more traditional  _abécédaire_ , one filled with pictures of fruit and animals, and Matthew smiled at the thought of Edward sitting on Mary's lap as she read it to him.

" _Oui_ , this one," he murmured.

The shopkeeper, delighted, began extolling its virtues. Matthew selected two copies and went in search of something to read during the rest of his leave. Whatever he purchased would have to remain at base camp, of course, but even the brief opportunity of reading it would be well worth the cost. There was little enough to relieve the boredom on the lines; having new passages to mull over would be a pleasure indeed.

* * *

"Fancy a bite to eat?" Matthew asked, when they stepped back out on to the street. "I ate at a wonderful little  _café_  the last time I was in Paris and I'd like to find it again. That is, unless you have some pressing engagement."

Davis smiled ruefully and gestured with his bag of purchases. "I had planned to merely visit a  _boulangerie_  and then find a room for the night."

"My treat, then," Matthew said. When Davis seemed reluctant to accept the charity, Matthew added with a joking, enticing air, "It has clean napery and unchipped cups...!"

Davis put on a look of mock offence. "Are you casting aspersions on my meal service, sir?"

Matthew grinned. "Not at all. I have only the highest respect for your cooking skills in the field! Your  _thé parfumé aux vapeurs de pétrole_  is a great delicacy."

And, laughing together, they went on their way, enjoying the City of Light as night fell around them and there was good food and pleasant conversation to be had.

* * *

**Early April 1917**

Davis appeared outside the dugout just as Matthew was returning to it.

"Report delivered," Davis said, and handed Matthew an envelope. "This was waiting for you at Battalion HQ."

Matthew ducked into the dugout, pulling off his tin hat and frowning down at the letter. It wasn't civilian post, but it also wasn't the usual form for sealed orders. He tore it open with his thumbnail as Davis moved around him, tidying things and taking out items in preparation for heating a meal.

Matthew read the letter and let out a short laugh of disbelief, then tucked it in his breast pocket and put his tin hat back on.

Davis straightened and put on his own tin hat. "Good news, sir?"

Matthew ducked back out and began to walk the line again, inspecting the trench walls and nodding to his men, as his soldier-servant followed behind. "Fancy a tour in England, Davis?"

"I assume you're having me on, sir."

"Not at all." Matthew couldn't wipe the grin off his face. "General Sir Herbert Strutt has asked for my transfer to be his ADC. He's touring England to boost recruitment, and he's remembered that I know Manchester and Yorkshire pretty well. It'll mean a couple of months at home and a promotion to Captain. I can't object to that."

Davis chuckled. "Certainly not!"

* * *

**May 1917**

"How was your trip home, sir?" Davis asked when Matthew met him at the barracks on Bullingdon Green, in anticipation of the general's arrival.

"Fine. Everyone is well. My wife's family seat is to become a convalescent home, which ought to shake things up a bit. How are Sarah and the children?"

Davis coughed, then smiled. "Sarah is well, as are Isaac and Jonathan. Rebekah..." He frowned. "She was hot to the touch when I left."

Matthew paused. "I'm sorry to hear it. Is it serious?"

"I don't know," Davis replied, and coughed again.

Matthew frowned at him. "Are you ill?"

Davis smiled and bumped a fist against his chest. "Just a minor complaint, sir. I'm sure I'll be right as rain by tomorrow."

Matthew started walking again and Davis fell in beside him. "I've put together the schedule for the day and the general's first stop is at the recruiting office in Cowley. Then we'll move on to the one in Oxford, and dinner tonight will be at Stonor Park. My mess kit is in Major Tulley's office."

"Very good, sir. I'll see to it."

* * *

**June 1917**

Matthew frowned as Davis turned away from him. The soldier-servant had been unusually quiet while Matthew was undressing and chatting about the day's events.

Davis coughed as he finished gathering up the discarded mess kit, and he laid it out carefully in its garment bag, keeping aside the items that would need to be laundered in the morning.

"Is something wrong?" Matthew asked.

Davis twisted and looked at Matthew. "Sir?"

"You're awfully quiet this evening."

Davis coughed again and returned to his task. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not quite feeling up to conversation."

"Are you unwell? You really ought to have that cough seen to."

Davis turned around, holding Matthew's shirt. "It's nothing, sir. It won't prevent me doing my job." He frowned slightly. "Unless you've been displeased with my performance in some way."

"No, not at all. I'm just concerned for you."

Davis smiled. "Thank you, sir, but there's no need." His smile quickly fell away and he laid the shirt on the small pile of laundry.

Matthew watched him for several seconds longer before finally asking, "Has something happened? You received some post this morning. Is it Rebekah?"

Davis quickly turned to look at him. "Oh! No. She's well." He smiled. "She's back to hiding in Sarah's skirts and throwing clods of dirt at her brothers."

"Oh dear, I hope not the little one!"

Davis chuckled and returned to tucking the scarlet dinner jacket into its bag. "Him, too, I'm afraid. That's all right. Good clean dirt never hurt a soul."

"True enough." Matthew smiled as he buttoned up his pyjama shirt. The pyjamas were a luxury that Mary had sent with him after his last visit home; they would have to be left at Downton before he returned to France, but it was a wonderful thing to sleep in clean, loose clothing each night. "So what's bothering you?"

Davis sighed, gave a small cough, and finished the folding. He went across the room to hang Matthew's garment bag on the door-hook and then turned round, finally meeting Matthew's eyes.

"May I speak frankly, sir?"

"Of course."

"Today..." Davis began with a frown, "it struck me how false I sounded as I spoke to the recruits, as I tried to convince men to enlist. I tried to put the best face on it, as always, but I wondered what they'd think if they knew who I was."

Matthew frowned. "What do you mean?"

Davis passed a hand wearily over his eyes, then went back across the room to his own bed. "After the riots in Leeds, and all the things that were done to the Jews there, I found myself wondering..." He coughed, shook his head, and began undressing.

Matthew sighed and sat down on the bed. Leeds had been unfortunate, a terrible show on the part of his fellow Englishmen. The city was home to a large community of Russian Jews, recent immigrants who had fled the persecutions in that country. There were many able-bodied men of military age among them—as well as in Manchester and London—but their status was uncertain. They weren't British citizens, eligible to fight on behalf of King and Country, as they had gained entry under the auspices of political asylum and they were too recently arrived to be naturalized yet. Compounding the difficulties, they were in general reluctant to ally themselves with Russia in the war, given all that had happened there to drive them to seek asylum. The result was a great deal of resentment against them for "enjoying the fat of the land while British citizens fought and died for their safety." It was an ugly business.

Davis sat back on his bed with a small groan. His breath rattled slightly, and Matthew frowned.

"We try to make it sound as though life at the front is a grand adventure, but it's nothing like it," Davis said.

Matthew looked down, discomfited.

Davis spoke quietly. "I can't help thinking that I'm the worst of devils, enticing men to their deaths."

Matthew nodded as he looked at his hands. "I know." He looked up at Davis. "But we're defending our homes and families. There's honour in that."

"That's just it," Davis answered. "Am I? Or will I come back from the front only to find that someone has thrown bricks through the windows of our home, or hurt my wife and children?"

Matthew swallowed.

Davis sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry, sir. You don't need to hear of my troubles."

"On the contrary, Davis, I wouldn't have it any other way." Matthew gave a sigh of his own. "You're not the only one with doubts."

Davis regarded him with raised eyebrows and Matthew nodded before looking away.

"You've...never said anything before, sir," Davis said carefully.

"I can't," Matthew replied, meeting his eyes again. "Then where would we be?"

"In exactly the same place, I expect." He gave a wry smile and Matthew turned away with a bitter chuckle, which faded into a frown as he looked at the toy dog on his bedside table.

"They don't know, here at home," he said. "The papers..."

The two men shared a look of understanding. The propaganda being circulated on the home front to keep up support for the war was part-laughable, part-horrifying in its lies. There was nothing righteous about this war now; the Germans were no more inhuman than Matthew himself, and he had a great deal of respect for them. They fought with ingenuity and honour.

"I once found  _tefillin_  on the ground beside a German soldier," Davis said quietly, and Matthew looked up in surprise. "It had fallen out of his pack." Davis shrugged. "I made sure they were buried with him." Davis frowned, blinking, and looked down at his hands. "The war changed for me that day."

Matthew frowned. "How?"

Davis coughed and shook his head, looking up but not meeting Matthew's eyes. "You don't know what it's like not to truly have a homeland," he said. "My great-grandfather was born here, and his father before him, but no matter how English we are, we are always aware that we can be reminded in an instant that we are set apart. We just want a place where we can serve God as we know how and raise our families in peace. But it is not merely the sudden threat of our neighbors turning on us. It is also the knowledge that in our eagerness to be accepted, we go to war against our own brothers. What quarrel have I with the Germans? Why are we fighting each other?"

Davis subsided suddenly, coughing. His voice had risen to a pitch that Matthew had never heard him produce before.

Matthew found that his own heart was pounding. He frowned deeply.

Davis wiped at his mouth and his voice became subdued. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have spoken out of turn like that. I will do my sworn duty, you can be sure of that."

Matthew met his eyes. "I have never doubted it." He rubbed his hands together and exhaled slowly. "Let us pray that this war is nearing its end."

"It is my constant refrain," Davis answered.

* * *

**Mid-July 1917**

Matthew walked across the drive to Downton Abbey unnoticed amidst the flurry of activity. There were hospital lorries parked outside the front door and wounded men in various stages of healing were making their way inside, escorted by nurses and Medical Corps orderlies and overseen, surprisingly, by Thomas.

"Cpl. Barrow," Matthew said, brightening as he saw the familiar face. "What's all this?"

"It's Sergeant Barrow now, sir," Thomas replied, saluting him, and Matthew returned it. "Downton Abbey's a convalescent home, as of 10 o'clock this morning. I'm managing the place now."

"Well done, then." Matthew glanced around, admiring the efficient movement of the men inside.

"Thank you, sir." Thomas gestured beyond him. "Over here," he called. "Bring Lt. Jacobs this way, Nurse Hansen. Excuse me, sir." He moved past Matthew, going to help a nurse escort a soldier on crutches who had only half of his left leg. Matthew swallowed and stepped aside, giving them all a tight smile as they passed.

He watched the proceedings for another few moments, waiting until the three had gone inside, and then he wandered in behind them, pulling off his cap and gloves. He was curious to see how the great house had been transformed. The hall was filled with rows of wooden tables and chairs. It was the most ornate canteen that he'd ever seen, and he smiled at the unexpected juxtaposition.

He found his mother just inside, carefully studying the contents of a folder, and he paused beside her and plucked at her sleeve.

She didn't look up from her papers. "I'm very sorry, but I—" She glanced at him and her expression transformed from polite distraction to sheer delight. "Matthew! What in the world are you doing here?"

Matthew smiled. "We start our tour of Yorkshire and Lancashire tomorrow. And General Strutt knew you lived up here, so he's given me a few hours off."

"What a lovely—!" She grabbed his shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, giving him a far more effusive greeting in public that she usually did. "— _lovely_  surprise!" She stood back, holding her folder to her chest and grinning widely up at him while he felt a bit self-conscious under the curious gaze of the other officers.

Mrs Hughes appeared nearby, sounding harried. "Mrs Crawley, how can we separate the hospital's linen from our own?"

"You go." Matthew smiled. "We'll talk later."

As his mother hurried off, Matthew felt a familiar hand touch his arm and he turned, grinning. "Mary."

"Don't worry." She was grinning as well. "I won't embarrass you, too."

He smirked at her. "You would never embarrass me. I would you kiss you in full view of everyone, but I don't want to embarrass  _you_."

She gave him a demure smile.

"Are you working here now?" he asked.

"No, I'm still managing the hospital in the village. But many hands make light work and I'm more needed here today. How are you?"

Matthew glanced around at all the activity. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?"

Mary nodded and led him across the hall and into the small library. It was made even smaller by the addition of several standing screens that were dividing the room in half. Voices could be heard on the far side, discussing...table tennis? Matthew shot Mary a confused look.

"This has been converted into a recreational room," Mary explained. "I know that I ought to be put out—Mama and Papa certainly are, as the changes have affected nearly every crevice of the house—but it is an unexpected benefit of having quit the place: I find that I really don't care."

Matthew gave a wry, half-apologetic chuckle. "Dear Mother. She's turned the place upside-down, has she? She does love a bit of authority. I suppose she's driving Cousin Cora mad?"

Mary's eyes twinkled mischievously. "No names, no pack drill." She put a finger playfully to her lips in a silencing gesture, and when she began to lower it, Matthew stepped up to her, kissed her fingertip, and then moved without hesitation to her mouth. Mary gave a small moan as he pressed her against a bookcase and his own guttural answer overlapped with hers.

Someone cleared their throat.

Matthew and Mary broke apart, startled, and looked towards the sound. It was Robert; he'd stood up from where he'd been sitting in his high-backed chair, invisible from the doorway. Matthew dropped his forehead against the bookcase beside Mary's cheek and she giggled, then pressed gently on his chest as she met her father's eyes.

Slowly standing back from her and entirely unashamed of having been caught kissing his own wife, Matthew straightened and met Robert's discomfited look.

"What are you doing here?" Mary asked.

Robert held up his newspaper. "Hiding."

Matthew chuckled. "Robert."

"Matthew."

Mary rolled her eyes and pushed off from the bookcase. "We were just looking for a place to have a private conversation, Papa."

"I know what you were doing," Robert said. He looked at them sternly a moment longer...but then he relaxed and gave a soft laugh. "I'm sorry: it's a father's prerogative to take amusement where he can." He reached out past the chair to shake Matthew's hand. "Matthew, it's so good to see you!" He gave Mary a slightly reprimanding look before returning to Matthew again. "Were you expected?"

"No," Matthew replied, gesturing with his cap and gloves. "We've finished in the Midlands and tomorrow we start on the camps in the northern counties. General Strutt gave me a few hours off." Matthew stepped forward. "Actually, sir, my visit isn't just a social one. As you know, I'm ADC to the general—" Robert nodded. "—and I think he ought to come here. It's exactly the sort of thing people like to read about."

"That's a capital idea," Robert said. "He'd be very welcome. You all would. It would be a relief to host a proper dinner party once again."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid there's a bit of a wrinkle." Matthew gave a slight grimace. "Our schedule is rather tight, you see, so we'd only be able to come on the last morning of our tour, if we can come at all. We could only stay for luncheon. Then we're all headed back to the front."

Mary stepped around to look up at him, disappointment clear in her features.

"You won't be spending the last few days of your leave at home?" she asked.

"No, darling, I'm sorry. I'd hoped to have the time, but recruitment hasn't been going as well as expected, so we've had to add more stops than originally planned."

"I'm very sorry to hear it," Robert said. "Keep us informed of the dates and we'll show General Strutt what we're made of, you can be sure of that." He frowned and glanced between them. "Best not tell Cora until it gets closer. I don't want her worrying herself sick. She has enough on her plate tending to this place  _and_  to Edward."

"Is he ill?" Matthew asked with a frown.

Robert sighed. "Just a slight cold, Clarkson says, but when he wakes at night, he refuses to be comforted by Nanny and cries incessantly for Cora."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Yes, well, you'll learn soon enough about the joys of small children." Robert smiled. "Speaking of which, I'll leave you two in peace. Here, girl." With a quick gesture of his hand, he beckoned to Isis, who had been lying on the floor with her head on her forepaws during the conversation. She leapt to her feet and followed him as he moved past them, still holding his newspaper. "Take care of yourself, Matthew."

"I will."

Robert paused and turned when he reached the door, and Isis sat down obediently beside his leg. "Oh—I meant to write you, but as you're here now: our footman, William, is on his way to active duty. Is there any chance you might take him for your servant? He's an only child and I'd hate for anything to happen to him. I can pull some strings, get him transferred to your lot."

Matthew gave an apologetic grimace. "I'd say yes, but I've already got an excellent soldier-servant and I've no intention of replacing him."

Robert held up a hand. "Understood. Well, let me know if your situation changes. It would give us all peace of mind to know that he has someone looking out for him."

"Even if I could take him, I couldn't promise to keep him safe."

Robert nodded. He gave them a final smile and then he and Isis went out and the door closed behind them.

Matthew turned to Mary. "You were saying...?"

She gave him a look. "I wasn't  _saying_  anything."

He answered her with a slow smile and approached her. "Ah, yes. Now I remember..." He started to reach for her—

"Ah! I've found it!" a stranger crowed from the far side of the screens. There was a small cheer that was soon followed by the sound of table tennis volleys.

Matthew looked back at Mary. "This isn't nearly private enough."

"I agree. Let's go to Crawley House."

"But won't they miss you? I thought you said you were needed here."

"I'll come back later." A teasing smile grew on Mary's lips. "My presence is much more urgently required at Crawley House."

Matthew laughed. "I can't argue with that."

"Good." Mary moved towards the door, then looked back at him with a frown. "Why aren't you coming?"

"I am," Matthew replied with a grin. "I was just enjoying watching your hips sway as you walked."

Mary's expression softened and then she smirked. "You can watch them do a great deal more than that if you stop standing there and  _follow me_."

Matthew hopped smartly into action, making Mary laugh, which was perhaps the most wonderful sound in the world.

* * *

**Late July 1917**

"General, may I—?"

"See to your man, Matthew," General Strutt said at breakfast, frowning after Davis as the soldier-servant stumbled away with a tray and barely managed to set it down before he was wracked with yet another coughing fit. "You're both excused for the remainder of the day. March can handle things until you get back."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good luck."

Matthew jogged after the still-hacking Davis, who had paused to lean against a post.

"Davis."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll just be a—" The soldier-servant's voice was raspy with the effort and he was trembling even when he wasn't coughing. "—moment."

"Never mind that," Matthew said, taking his elbow. Even through his tunic, Davis felt noticeably warm, and there were beads of sweat dotting his brow. "I'm taking you to a doctor."

Davis made as if to protest again, but a coughing fit wracked his body and he only managed a weary nod as he reached the end of it.

Keeping a firm hand on his elbow, Matthew led him to a nearby car and got him settled inside, then jogged around to the other side and climbed in. He quickly started the motor and pulled out on to the road towards the village centre.

"I guess—" Davis tried to smile, then coughed and sagged back against the seat. "—all those driving—lessons—good thing."

Matthew chuckled and shifted gears, wincing as they ground before catching. "Seems I may still need a few more."

But making Davis laugh only made his coughing fits worse, and Matthew regretted it instantly. He sped up and shifted again. After all that Davis had done for him, including saving his life more than once, the least Matthew could do was look after him. He'd let this go on for far too long.

Davis coughed in a horribly thick-sounding way and Matthew saw flecks of blood on his hands. Then Davis clutched as his chest and actually whimpered.

Far too long.

* * *

A nurse came to Davis's bedside and rolled him on to his side as he was seized with another exhausting fit. Matthew quickly set down the pen and clipboard that he'd been using to transcribe Davis's letter to his wife and reached to help. He slipped an arm under Davis's shoulders and gently propped him up as the nurse encouraged him to drink, and then they tried to make him comfortable against the pillow. Davis made a weak sound that might have been a moan if he'd had the energy for it, his body shivering despite the hot, clammy feel of his skin.

He was struggling just to draw shallow breaths and Matthew's own chest was tight from listening to the strained sounds. The bedside vigil had produced a certain interminable suspension of the passage of time, with each moment drawing all of Matthew's attention. It was exhausting. He had no idea of the hour. The rest of the ward had grown quiet after night fell, and to keep Davis from infecting the other patients, the staff had erected privacy screens around his bed. They were in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers; Matthew's sense of isolation was intense.

Davis's face drew up in a grimace and he dragged a hand to his temple. His lips and fingernails had an awful bluish tinge, reminding Matthew of too many empty-eyed faces that he wished he could unsee.

"No..." Davis wheezed, turning away from the nurse's ministrations as she tried to pat his forehead with a damp cloth. "It's not her fault! Don't do this! Don't—" His body shook with coughing and the nurse quickly wiped at his blood-flecked mouth with the cloth.

"Shhh, Pvt. Davis...shhh...there," she murmured.

Matthew swallowed, his frame taut as he watched, helpless. He was powerless in the face of this enemy, forced to watch his soldier-servant...his fellow soldier...his  _friend_  slowly lose this final battle. The physician had already pronounced Davis's pneumonia too far advanced and instructed the nurses to merely keep him as comfortable as possible. As Davis struggled to draw another bubbling, crackling breath, unconscious of his surroundings, Matthew exhaled shakily and stood. With a final look back, he stepped out from the enclosure around the bed.

He ran a hand through his hair, fear chasing worry chasing something deeper that he didn't want to think about, a tide that he felt coming in against his will. Davis had been slipping in and out of delirium for several hours now. Most of his conscious words had been spent on desperate, whispered messages to his wife and children, which Matthew tried to capture as best he could. When Davis lost himself, he usually cried something in defence of his wife, or tried weakly to drag men across a field of battle that only existed in his mind.

Matthew went across the dimmed ward, moving farther away from the tortured sounds, and found the physician, Major Shaw, writing reports in his office. Matthew didn't think much of the man after how quickly he had dismissed Davis's chances, having given him only a cursory examination and making, to Matthew's eyes, no attempt to heal him.

"Any news on fetching the rabbi from Leeds?" Matthew asked, attempting to keep a polite tone in his voice. Shaw looked up with a frown.

"Oh, didn't they tell you? We sent a boy, but he was unable to find anyone. If you'd told us where to look..."

"I don't  _know_ ," Matthew replied, his jaw working. "Are you certain he asked the proper authorities?"

Shaw shrugged. "He came back an hour ago alone. That's all I know."

Matthew gritted his teeth. "Where is the vicarage?"

"Take a left when you go out and follow the road. It's behind the church, opposite the graveyard."

"Thank you."

* * *

Matthew pounded on the old wooden door. It was almost midnight; the vicar was sure to be inside. Matthew pounded again.

He heard the sound of scraping followed by slow footsteps, and then the door was pulled open. A thin man with grey wisps of hair under a nightcap stood clutching his robes about himself and frowning.

"Yes? Who are you?"

"Capt. Matthew Crawley, Aide de Camp to General Sir Herbert Strutt. We're on a recruitment drive. I need your help. A man is dying."

A brief look of annoyance passed over the vicar's face, but he nodded and pulled the door open further, beckoning Matthew inside.

"Of course, come in. Who is he?"

"My soldier-servant, Pvt. Samuel Davis."

"Why isn't an Army chaplain suitable?"

"We don't have a chaplain in the general's entourage. I've brought Davis to hospital." Matthew made a quick gesture back towards the place. "I tried to send to Leeds for a rabbi, but they weren't able to fetch anyone."

The vicar's mouth curled down. "He's a Jew?"

"Yes," Matthew said. "Major Shaw says that he hasn't long left. I thought you might know what to pray—"

" _I'm_  not a Jew," the vicar said. He had drawn his robes more tightly around himself and was moving back towards the door.

"Neither am I," Matthew said, a sudden white-hot flame flaring up in him. He put out a hand but stopping short of actually touching the other man. "What has that to do with anything? A man is  _dying!_ "

"Good riddance."

"Surely you see that he is one of God's own children!"

"I don't minister to ungrateful alien  _rats_ ," the vicar hissed. "Leave. Now."

Matthew stood with his mouth open, fighting to keep his fists by his sides. The urge to wrap his hands around the man's neck and  _squeeze_  was nearly overpowering.

"How  _dare_  you!" he snapped. "You call yourself a man of God!"

The vicar was trembling with rage. "I'll have naught to do with those Christ-killers, and if you know what's good for you, neither will you."

"We  _all_  killed Him, you fool! Or have you forgotten 'there is none that doeth good, no, not one'?"

"How  _dare_  you quote Scripture at me! Who are you to speak to me in such a fashion?" The vicar's voice was shrill with rage. "Get out!"

Matthew's nostrils flared and with a growl, he stomped out into the night. The door slammed shut behind him. Should he try to find another priest? No; he had no time left. Fighting to hold back the tide as it brushed up against him now, whispering, demanding, burning, he hurried back to the hospital and braced himself for the final ordeal.

* * *

Matthew started out walking but he finished at a run. His shoulder slammed into the door just as he grabbed the doorknob, and the latch gave way unexpectedly. He stumbled out into the darkness of the garden, feeling as though he were drowning, suffocating, and nearly ended up on his knees. Catching himself, he struggled to his feet and looked up at the night sky.

"No!" he shouted. "How dare You!"

There was no answer, just the silent twinkling of a thousand implacable stars.

Who was he? Who were any of them? This whole terrible conflict, which seemed on a scale so vast that the world had never seen its like before, was what? It was nothing. It was a bunch of ants scurrying around on a smashed anthill, destroying it still further, the whole thing swallowed up in pointlessness and darkness.

And somewhere, above it all, was a Being who was allowing it to happen. Who, they said, was sovereign, in control of everything. What conclusion could be drawn but that He had caused all of it? Was He sitting up in His holy seat, laughing at all the prayers that He let go unanswered?

The hospital behind Matthew was filled with crippled men, men who would never walk, or grasp, or see again. Brave men whose faces had been horribly disfigured, whose mere appearance made everyone around them recoil. What had they done to deserve such an awful fate?

_What had Davis ever done to offend You? He loved You, he served You faithfully, he loved his wife and his children. He cared for me._

_He cared for me. I failed him._

Matthew's vision blurred. He stumbled a few steps to the nearby stone wall and gripped its top stones so tightly that he scraped his fingertips. He held on to keep himself from falling to his knees.

"How dare You?!" he demanded, and his voice broke. "He was a  _good man!_  He didn't deserve this!"

Silence.

What had Matthew been fighting for? What had he been believing in? Was it all a lie? Just wishful thinking, a delusion?

He was a pawn, bitterly angry at having been used, a fool for having believed at all.

His old rage at his father's death resurfaced and joined with his fresh anger at the loss of Davis. All of the study at university had become a cloud of a smoke, a mere play of the mind, the abstractions of theology an impotent answer to the burning in his heart.

Matthew suddenly growled and dug his fingers into the cracks between the stones. The wall was old and its mortar crumbled at his touch. With a vicious yank, he pulled the stone under his right hand free and flung it behind him with as much force as he could muster, crying out in impotent fury.

There was a slight yelp behind him and he started in surprise. He'd thought he was alone.

Quickly drawing in a shaking breath, his rage far from spent, he straightened and turned, wiping at his eyes to clear them. Whoever the person was, he just wanted them to go away and leave him alone. His chest burned.

A young woman stood before him in a nurse's uniform. Her face was plain, unremarkable but kind, and pale in the faint moonlight. He couldn't recall seeing her before, but then he hadn't been paying much attention to anyone except Davis. He frowned at her, willing her to go away.

"What do you want?" he barked.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Capt. Crawley," she said. "But he wanted me to give you this."

She was holding out a folded slip of paper.

"Who did? What's this?" Frowning, Matthew took it and opened it.

It held only two words, in Davis's confident hand:

_Thank you_

Matthew stared down at it, an irrational doubt rising in him. When had Davis managed to write this? He hadn't been able to hold a pen steady since they'd arrived at the hospital. But it was in his handwriting, so no one else could have written for him. It hadn't been in any of Davis's uniform pockets: after they'd removed his uniform, Matthew had gone through them all, looking for the half-finished letter that Davis had begun, addressed to his wife. Davis couldn't have written this.

And yet here it was in Matthew's hands, this impossible note.

Matthew was chagrinned to see that he'd smeared a bit of blood on the corner from his torn thumb, which by now had begun to smart. He quickly transferred the note to his other hand and asked, "When did he give this to you?"

When there was no answer, Matthew looked up, annoyed. "Well?"

He was alone in the garden.

He frowned. He'd been so engrossed in the note that he hadn't noticed her leave. He looked down at the slip of paper again.

_Thank you_

"No..." he moaned, and the words became blurry.

His earlier rage hadn't gone, but it had hollowed him out and left only a gaping, bloody hole in its wake. Every smile, every look of fear, every prayer, every joking exchange, every time Davis had pressed a warm tin cup into Matthew's hands, came flooding into him. Matthew staggered back against the wall with a pained cry and slumped to the ground, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared at the dark, blurry shapes on the paper.

He was alone in the garden now, the one left behind to carry on, but he didn't think he had it in him. So many had been lost, and yet the war's hunger was insatiable. How could he return to all of that? He just wanted to sob uncontrollably, to curl up and be left alone with his grief.

But he could not.

With an effort, he sat up straighter. The stones dug into his back and reminded him of where he was. He sniffed and composed himself, wiping at his eyes until he could see clearly again. He still held the note in his hand, and he lifted it to read it once more.

_Thank you_

He must make arrangements for Davis's body to be returned to his family, and he must write to Sarah and the children. Matthew set his jaw. Those children would grow up knowing what an excellent man their father had been. He would see to that.

Pushing himself wearily to his feet, his chest and eyes still burning, Matthew carefully folded the note and tucked it in the left breast pocket of his tunic.

_You are welcome, my friend._

* * *

**1 August 1917**

_Where was the damn ink bottle?_

Matthew stood breathing hard in the centre of the room that he'd shared with Davis. He thought a moment and tilted his head, then took two steps across the room and yanked open the drawer in the table beside what had been Davis's bed.

There it was: the travel writing kit, with its small bottle of black ink and the spare fountain pen. Of course Davis would keep it by him; it was his job to keep the pens filled.

Matthew reached down into the drawer and lifted out the box, holding it for a long moment without moving.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he carried it back to the desk and carefully sat down, ignoring the mess that was strewn about behind him. He would see to that after he finished his letters. He wanted to post both of them first thing, and dawn was nearly upon him.

Steeling himself, he took up the spare pen and began again.

* * *

_We're having great success in Lancashire and I'm happy to report that General Strutt is eager to visit Downton on the last morning of our tour. Please let your parents know that a party of four will be arriving at 10.00 am on 14 August._

_Thank you for passing on the wonderful news! Anthony and Edith must be so proud. I am greatly relieved to hear that she and baby Sylvia are doing well!_

_If there is some reason why the tour on the 14th should not proceed, please send a letter c/o Major Andrew Wallis, Training Corps., Ripon. We will be coming through there early next week._

_Your loving husband,_

_Matthew_

_(p.s. — I am so grateful for our afternoon at Crawley House; it has carried me through these past few days. I am aching to see you again, darling, although I know we might only have a few minutes together. I hope you are well.)_

* * *

**14 August 1917**

Matthew stood beside Robert in the library at Downton Abbey as they all waited for luncheon to be announced. Their tour completed, they watched Strutt make friendly jokes about having poor skills at 'Devil among the tailors' as some of the officers set up the skittles in preparation for him to give the game a try. The general was surrounded by his entourage and several of the convalescing senior officers. Cora, Isobel, and Clarkson also stood among them, but Mary sat with Violet and Rosamund on the opposite side of the room, chatting, too far away for Matthew to hear.

He wished he could be sitting beside his wife right now, just beside her, perhaps the side of his finger brushing against hers as their hands rested on the seat between them. He felt no urge to speak to her—truly, he had no desire to keep up polite conversation today with anyone, but he was obliged to do so and to keep smiling—but oh, how he wished he could simply be alone with her for an hour or two! Just to sit quietly, to hold her, to be held, to rest.

But of course, there wasn't time for that. After lunch, they would be leaving for Ripon, to pack their kits and get on the train to London, and then they would cross the Channel during the night and return to the grim business of war on the Western Front. These days spent dining in state and luxury, so far from all their comrades, making friendly—and unfortunately, often rather inane—conversation about the war effort, were thankfully almost over. Although he had no love for the daily discomforts at the front, he much preferred the unadorned honesty and clear directives of military life. One was not permitted the luxury of spending too much time wrestling with unsettling questions when faced with the stark realities of a daily life-or-death struggle.

The officers had finished setting up the skittles and they all stood back.

Strutt grinned and pulled up the ball on its string. "Let's see what my aim is like." He released the ball and it swung through the skittles and back without hitting a single one.

"And again." Clarkson smiled as Strutt took up the ball once more.

This time, some skittles were knocked down and Matthew cheered politely, along with everyone else.

"You must be enjoying your respite from the front," Robert said, grinning.

Matthew felt a stab of bitterness, but he kept the polite smile on his face. "Actually, I'm struggling a bit. I've just lost my soldier-servant and I haven't managed to replace him yet."  _I can't bring myself to do it._

"Ah, yes," Robert agreed. "When I lost Bates during the Boer War, it was such a terrible inconvenience."

"I'm sure," Matthew murmured, fighting the anger rising in him. He looked across the room again. When Mary turned, she met his gaze and smiled, and he did his best to return it.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

Oy vey, these notes will be long... :)

Thanks go to God, for the inspiration: once He suggested that Davis be Jewish, the entire chapter just fell into place. To  **Apollo888** ,  **Jean** , and  **tbborrell** , for giving me thorough line-editing beta feedback. To  **Naniee** , who translated and checked all the French in this chapter, purposely seeding errors (at my request) into the French/English dialogue to reflect the likely fluencies of the characters, and to  **Dave** , who double-checked it all. To  **lilyrowan1** , for finding the WWI  _abécédaire_  (It's a real book!), and to a wonderful librarian,  **Linda** , who helped me obtain copies of the references I used to learn about the British Jews' experience during WWI.

I drew heavily on the following sources while writing this chapter:

Read, I.L. 'Dick' (1994).  _Of Those We Loved: A Great War Narrative: Remembered and Illustrated_ , Barnsley: The Pentland Press, Ltd.

Levene, Mark (1999). Going against the Grain: Two Jewish Memoirs of War and Anti-War, 1914-18.  _Jewish Culture and History_ , 2(2), pp. 66-95.

Levy, Elkan D. (1970). Antisemitism in England at war, 1914-1916.  _Patterns of Prejudice_ , 4(5), pp. 27-30.

Hyman, Jonathan, "Jews in Britain During the Great War", Manchester: University of Manchester Working Papers in Economic and Social History No. 51, October (2001).

Adler, Rev. Michael, & Freeman, Max R.G. (Eds.). (1922).  _British Jewry Book of Honour 1914-1918_ , London: Caxton Publishing Co., Ltd.; particularly Adler's memoir article, "Experiences of a Jewish Chaplain on the Western Front", pp. 33-58.

Hellé, André (1916).  _Abécédaire de la grande guerre 1914-1916: pour les enfants de nos soldats_ , Paris: Berger-Levrault.

The padre's brief prayer over the graves was taken from the BBC's iWonder article, "Why did chaplains end up on the front lines in WW1?" See

www . bbc . co . uk / guides / zts3b9q

(Remove the spaces.)

Biblical excerpts were taken from Deuteronomy 11:18, The Holy Scriptures, translated by Isaac Leeser, Hebrew Publishing Company (1905); and Psalm 8:2, Psalm 14:3 from the King James Version.

...plus a ton of web resources, too many to list here. When I finish T&P, I'm hoping to repackage it for Kindle, etc., and I'll do a proper bibliography in that edition.

As always, your feedback and suggestions for improvement are very welcome. Thank you for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

_23_

**March 1918**

Mary looked up from her clipboard with a wearied air. "Do I have to?"

Cora and Edith stood in the hospital hallway in their hats, furs, and gloves, their expressions cheerful.

"Yes, you do," Cora answered. "Keeping their spirits up is an important part of the cure, and it's so very little to ask."

Mary sent up a silent prayer for patience and scanned the cupboard shelf again. Where had she left off? Oh yes: there were only two bottles of hydrogen peroxide left. She made a note to order three more.

Isobel came down the hallway from the opposite direction, a bright smile on her face. "What's going on?"

Edith looked past Mary. "Oh, hello, Cousin Isobel! The men are putting on a concert."

"Can I help?" Isobel asked, as she drew up beside them.

"I'm sure Edith would be happy to have the help," Cora answered. "Wouldn't you, dear?"

"I would," Edith said to Isobel. "The men are planning the schedule tomorrow, but I've an errand to run in Ripon then. Can you make sure Major Bryant doesn't get more than fifteen minutes for his magician act?" Edith made a pained face and Mary suppressed a smile, continuing to check off items and doing her best to avoid being dragged any further into the tedium of concert planning.

"He's so charming," Cora sighed. "He has just the manner for an illusionist!"

"Rather too much of it, I should think," Edith observed dryly. Mary raised an eyebrow at this, but did not look up from her clipboard.

"Yes," Isobel replied, her tone heavy with meaning. "Mrs Hughes tells me he's under watch."

"As he ought to be," Edith said.

"Why?" Cora asked, looking between Edith and Isobel. "What's he done?"

"Nothing, yet." Edith brightened. "So, Mary, will you? I've promised them we'll both be in it. Please say you will."

Mary lowered her clipboard. She was never going to get through the stores as long as the two of them were pestering her. "Oh, all right," she said, looking at the ceiling. "One song and that's your lot."

Edith beamed. "Come by Friday next. We'll rehearse in the library."

Mary nodded and made a point of returning to her clipboard.

"Is there anything else you'd like my help with?" Isobel asked Edith, who moved past Mary to continue the conversation as Isobel went into a nearby ward. Cora hovered behind Mary with an air of wanting to say something, but when Mary looked up, her mother just smiled politely and drifted after Edith and Isobel. Mary frowned, blinked, and returned to her inventory.

* * *

"I have no desire to poke my nose in where it's not needed," Mary said, as she and Violet strolled in through the Dower House's front gate. "Mama is running Downton and she's the best suited to coordinate everyone's schedules. It's not unreasonable to allow the servants to have their lunch at one. I'd be starving—not to mention weary—if I had to work straight through from eleven-thirty to six. Isn't it already enough that they can't stop for tea now?"

Violet frowned. "Isobel is worried that the officers' medical care will be compromised, now that the nurses are changing their shifts at an earlier hour and they have less overlap in their schedules to give them time to discuss the patients."

Mary gave an annoyed toss of her head. "I'm perfectly aware of what Isobel is worried about, Granny."

Violet paused near the bench beside the path. "Yes, I suppose you would be." She seated herself on the bench, looking displeased.

"I've discussed it with Major Clarkson, and I agree with him," Mary said, joining Violet on the bench. "The men need good food, fresh air, and clean sheets now, not intensive medical care."

"But after all that Isobel has done..."

"And she's welcome to continue doing it, under Mama's direction." At this, Violet gave Mary a look and Mary continued with a wry nod. "Hence why I encouraged her to come back to the hospital. Clarkson told me that he would be happy to have her again."

Violet raised her eyebrows at this. "Is there something afoot there, I wonder? It's been nearly a decade since Bertha died."

"No, I think he just wants a counterweight for Sister Brodrick."

"A wife who is a nurse  _would_  be a good match for him," Violet mused.

Mary made a face. "I don't think Isobel sees him in that way."

Violet pursed her lips and adjusted the position of her stick. "Still, I'm surprised he's willing to leave the running of the convalescent home to someone without any medical training at all."

"Mama is doing a very good job of it, you know."

"If you say so. I would not have thought your mother capable of running a military hospital."

"Well, she is," Mary asserted. "After all, I'm her daughter, and I'm not making a mull of it, either."

Violet's face relaxed into a proud smile as Mary settled back against the bench.

"What a lovely day!" Mary sighed in contentment.

"Has Matthew written to say when he's coming home?"

Mary smiled. "Yes. He expects to arrive at Downton by Monday evening!" Her face was bright with anticipation, and Violet eyed her with a calculating look.

"Are you quite...all right, my dear?" Violet asked.

Mary gave her a questioning frown. "What do you mean?"

Violet's hand flexed on the knob of her stick and she shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to push in."

"Nonsense," Mary replied, smirking. "You love pushing in. What's this about? I feel fine, Granny."

"But are you  _quite_  certain? With Matthew coming home again so soon...don't you want to be  _sure_?"

Mary's eyes narrowed. Then her face cleared and she looked away with a slow nod of understanding, lifting her chin. Her expression was a mixture of defiance and discomfort.

"Has Isobel said anything to you?" Violet asked. "She has experience in these matters."

Mary frowned as she looked at a budding tree that grew on the lawn across from the bench. "I know. And no, she has not."

Violet pressed her lips together in a disapproving fashion.

Mary gave her a guarded smile. "Thank you for your concern, Granny, but it's my affair; mine and Matthew's."

Violet's eyes flickered over Mary's face and then she looked away. They sat in silence a moment, as a gentle breeze blew over them and a pair of orange-breasted robins landed on the lawn in front of the budding tree. The birds began to poke about in the young grass, looking for food.

"What's this I hear of Edith volunteering to assist with the convalescing officers?" Violet asked. "Of what use can she possibly be?"

"I'm not sure," Mary answered. "I've not been there often enough to notice what she gets up to. All I know is that right now she's helping the men to organize a concert." Mary frowned in distaste. "She and Mama have press-ganged me into singing something for it."

Violet sniffed. "I don't know why Anthony permits her to flit about the countryside in this fashion, driving herself to only God knows where. It's not fitting for a lady of her station. She ought to be at home, caring for her family."

"Isobel says that Edith is only at Downton two afternoons a week. If I lived with Sir Anthony Strallan and two children under the age of three, I think I'd want to escape from time to time, too."

Violet smirked. "When you put it that way." She lifted her chin in a nod of approval. "Still, he's not nearly as boring as we'd supposed. Once you get him off farming, he can be quite worldly and charming."

"Why, Granny, you surprise me."

"Not at all," Violet replied. "I'm only saying he's improved upon further acquaintance. I'm actually rather impressed with how Edith hasn't been reduced to the role of a mere nursemaid."

Mary nodded with a thoughtful smile.

"Speaking of which," Violet said, tilting her head slightly, "what about Sybil? Does she have anyone in her sights?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you sure she has no chap in mind? How odd. I had an endless series of crushes at her age."

Mary shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Not even some man she doesn't care to mention?"

Mary gave Violet a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Violet replied carefully, "war breaks down barriers, and when peacetime re-erects them, it's very easy to find oneself on the wrong side."

Mary frowned as she looked away.

* * *

Tom pulled a wrench from the pocket of his coveralls and bent over the engine to finish tightening the bolt.

"Why did you promise Carson not to stage any more protests, when you wouldn't promise me?"

Tom drew up in surprise and glanced behind him. Sybil stood there, dressed in her nurse's uniform as usual, an incensed look on her face. He returned to the engine; he wasn't going to discuss his failed attempt to give General Strutt what for. That was long past. He was just glad he still had a job.

"I had my reasons."

He could feel Sybil's glare boring into his back.

"You won't be content to stay at Downton forever, will you?" She gave a small huff and he frowned and straightened. There was no use in trying to focus on the car now.

"Tinkering away at an engine instead of fighting for freedom?" she continued. "I thought you'd join the rising in Dublin last Easter."

He wiped his hands on a cloth and turned, stepping away from the car as he faced her. "I might have, if it hadn't been put down in six short, bloody days. But don't fret. The real fight for Ireland will come after the war, and I'll be ready for it."

Brave words, but he still wasn't sure how he could help. He had no intention of simply causing trouble on the street. He wanted to make a  _lasting_  difference.

"But how can you be, if you're still here?" Sybil asked, her tone more curious than angry now. "If you care so much about it, why not just leave?"

Tom took another step towards her. "What does it matter to you?"

She straightened and set her jaw.

He fixed her in a direct look. "Truth is, I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me."

Her mouth fell open and she spoke in a half-whisper. "Don't be ridiculous!"

He smiled. "You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me."

Her mouth remained open and her eyes burned. She stared back at him in silence, but he wouldn't back down. His smile just widened further.

"You...!" she said.

"Yes?" he asked, taking another step closer.

She took a step back. He stopped moving and laughed softly to himself, putting his hands in the pockets of his coveralls.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked, looking away and down, her eyes darting uncomfortably.

He raised an eyebrow. "If you didn't care, you would have told them months ago."

She gave a mocking huff, incensed. "Oh, I see. Because I don't want you to lose your job, it must mean I'm madly in love with you."

"Well, doesn't it?"

She stepped and moved her arms with a bit more agitation as he stood calmly and watched her. She was his. She just wouldn't admit it.  _That's all right_ , he thought.  _I can be patient._

Sybil looked at him. "You say I'm a free spirit, and I hope I am. But you're asking me to give up my whole world and everyone in it."

He swallowed and nodded, looking down at her shoes. "And that's too high a price to pay?" he asked softly, before looking up at her again.

"It  _is_  a high price! I love my parents—you don't know them—and I love my sisters and my friends..."

He  _was_  asking a lot of her, and for what? What did he have to offer her? He couldn't support a wife and children on a chauffeur's salary, and even if it were possible, Lord Grantham would never permit such an arrangement with his own  _daughter_.

For all that Tom was certain of Sybil's feelings and his own, he was under no romantic illusions about what he was asking of her. And yet this was  _right_. He could feel it in his soul. He would never be happy with anyone else as long as Sybil walked the earth. He would love her and treasure her and do his utmost—work himself to the bone, if need be—to provide for her and any children they might have. His heart squeezed at that thought and he shook his head, looking at his own feet this time. Lord and Lady Grantham might never wish to set eyes on him again, but even they would not be so heartless as to disown their own grandchildren.

"I'm not asking you to give them up forever," he answered, lifting his head proudly and drawing his hands out of his pockets. No matter what anyone said, the Crawleys  _weren't_  better than his lot. "And when they come around, I will welcome them with open arms."

Sybil's voice rose in anger and she fixed him in a hard look. "And what about  _your_  people? Would they accept me?"

Tom drew in a sharp breath and looked back at her, unable to ignore the truth of her words. He'd had a vague idea of bringing her back to Ireland with him, marrying her there, looking for work—what work?—and making a go of things there, a fresh start, but as every syllable that fell from her lips marked her as a member of the English upper classes, he could easily picture the reaction. His heart tightened.  _Was there no place for them?_

How had something so simple and so beautiful, a man loving a woman, become so complicated?

He frowned and started to turn back to the engine, but Sybil wasn't finished.

"And what about my work?" she demanded.

He turned back with a sharp twist. "What work?" he snapped, flinging out his arm to take in the great house behind them. "You're bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers."

Sybil stiffened in shock, her nostrils flaring, but he remained uncowed. Why did she insist on complicating the whole situation further? Did she truly rank her work as more important than him? Her words wounded him, reduced him to a fool for declaring himself. He shook his head and held up his hands in frustration, trying to make her understand.

"Look, it comes down to whether or not you love me. That's all. That's it." She was frowning at him. He was losing her; he could feel it, and his voice broke a little. "The rest is detail."

She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and walked away.

* * *

"Is anyone else coming with us?" William asked, picking up his rifle, the rest of his equipment already secured.

Matthew double-checked the chambers of his revolver before snapping them into the barrel and holstering the weapon. He shrugged on his greatcoat. "We don't need anyone with us. The sergeant knows what we're doing."

William nodded. "But what are we patrolling for?"

Matthew smirked as he stuffed the toy dog into his pocket and reached for his tin hat. "You've been taking those logic pills again. This is the army, Mason. We're going on a patrol because we're going on a patrol."

They emerged from the dugout into the brisk morning air and made their way along the trench.

"No matter what Mrs Crawley says," William said, "I don't think there's any reason to worry."

"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

"You've seen so little of each other," William answered. "And as me Dad says, these things are always about timing."

"You're an only child, aren't you, Mason?" Matthew asked, suppressing a smile.

"I am."

"You'll forgive me if I don't feel confident relying on your father's advice about this."

"I weren't always an only child, sir."

Matthew paused, the smile falling from his lips, and he turned in the trench. "I'm sorry, Mason, that was uncalled for. I shouldn't have assumed."

William shrugged. "How could you have known? You've only been at Downton a few years."

"Still," Matthew said. "I apologise."

William waved a hand, unoffended, and they continued along the trench again. "At least we'll be home again soon." There was a distinct grin in his voice and Matthew chuckled and glanced back over his shoulder as they walked.

"Have you warned Daisy, or will it be a surprise?"

"No, I've told her we're coming to Downton first. Then I'll visit me Dad and go back to see her for a day at the end."

"Just think," Matthew sighed, "fresh Yorkshire air again!"

"I can't wait!" William exclaimed.

* * *

They held their weapons out in readiness as they moved along the side of a railway embankment, crouching. Matthew took in their surroundings once again, a quick glance establishing landmarks. They were nearing the Germans' last known position along this railway, and their task was to verify that intelligence and assess the strength of the German line. Matthew strained to hear the slightest sound, the hiss-scratch of boots on leaves or the snap of a twig—

A smoking stub of a fag suddenly dropped on the ground just in front of him and he pulled up with a silent gasp and immediately threw himself down into a hollow at the base of the embankment, William diving in behind him. The two of them froze and after a second, Matthew chanced a look up.

Three German soldiers, their weapons drawn, were walking along the top of the embankment, speaking in low tones. Matthew listened closely, trying to capture some useful intelligence. His German was only slightly better than his French.

" _Neuigkeiten?_ " — _News?_

" _Nein._ " — _No._

" _Aber heute Nachmittag hab ich ein erwischt._ "  _—But I caught one this afternoon._

" _Erzähl mal._ " — _Tell us._

" _Er war sofort hinüber._ " — _It was over immediately._

" _Schwarz oder braun?_ " — _Black or brown?_

" _Gut getan._ " — _Well done._

" _Schwarz..._ " — _Black..._

The soldiers were merely making small talk, not discussing anything of tactical significance, and the longer Matthew and William remained to listen, the more likely it was that their position would be discovered.

Breathing through his mouth, his heart pounding, Matthew jerked his hand back and William slipped out of the hollow, returning the way the two of them had come. With one last glance up at the soldiers, Matthew followed, hunkering down as he ran.

They made it past the end of the embankment and went up over a small hill into a patch of trees, Matthew now in the lead. The British line was about a mile away, although thankfully most of the rest of that distance lay through woodland, which would provide some cover. They hurried down the other side of the hill and Matthew's heart jumped.

Two German soldiers blocked their way!

He skidded to a stop and threw up his hand. William froze behind him.

The two Germans walked through the trees, still unaware of Matthew and William. A heartbeat passed, then two...

Tin cookware clattered behind him, and Matthew gasped and spun in horror.

The three soldiers from the embankment had come this way, and they attracted the notice of the two soldiers blocking Matthew and William's path.

" _Da ist der Feind! Schiess!_ " one of the two shouted, pointing.

" _Feuert auf sie! Los!_ " came the echoing command. The three Germans behind Matthew and William immediately dropped to their knees and lifted their rifles.

Matthew beckoned for William to run and gave him a sharp push. He was hot on his soldier-servant's heels as they hurled themselves down an incline amidst the Germans' crossfire. Then something knocked the wind out of him and he gasped and stumbled.

* * *

_Matthew was missing._

Silverware clinked against plates and candelabras flickered peacefully in the center of the table as the family ate dessert.

"I might go over to Moulton tomorrow." Cora sat forward with a wearied air. "Agatha Spenlow is madly promoting her charity fair."

"I received an invitation to that, too," Edith said. "Is it really so tiresome?"

"Not if you want to talk needlecraft and nosegays by the hour," Violet replied.

"Surely it can't be that bad," Sybil said. "At least it's for a good cause."

There was a general, almost invisible sigh as the family continued eating.

_Matthew was missing._

"How is Baby Sylvia?" Cora asked, putting on a cheerful smile. Edith and Anthony brightened. "Has she begun to crawl yet? She was so close when I last visited!"

"She's nearly there," Edith answered.

"I suspect she might skip crawling altogether, actually," Anthony said, straightening with pride. "She's begun pulling herself up to standing."

_Matthew was missing._

"But she's only seven months old." Robert frowned. "Isn't that rather early to be standing?"

"Yes, it is," Isobel said. "But it's not unheard of. Some children excel at such things at an early age."

Edith and Anthony beamed.

"She's rather shaky," Anthony admitted. "She topples almost as soon as she gains her feet."

Everyone exchanged politely amused glances.

Mary took a sip of her wine.

_Matthew was missing._

"My Matthew was reading before he was four," Isobel began, then faltered.

_Matthew was missing._

Cora recovered quickly and gave Isobel an encouraging smile. "Mary won her first equestrian ribbon at the village fair when she was four."

Robert smiled. "I led her pony round the town square and she sat like a lady from top to toe." His eyes softened as he looked at Mary and she managed a smile back. She remembered that day, too. She remembered eating ice cream after she won the ribbon.

Robert chuckled. "I'm afraid Edward has become something of a table tennis fiend at the tender age of three."

Cora smiled and shook her head fondly. "I don't have the heart to stop the officers teaching him how to play. They seem to enjoy it so."

" _They_  seem to?" Robert replied, grinning now. "I fear we'll be required to keep the table long after the officers have all left!"

"Mercy," Violet protested, shooting him a disturbed glance. "I hope you're not seriously considering keeping it!"

"I wouldn't leave it in the library, of course," he said. "But I'm certain I could find a home for it somewhere, if he likes it so much. Perhaps in a room adjacent to the billiards?"

"Another pastime I'll never understand," Violet sniffed.

_Matthew was missing._

Mary tried to remain in the room, to be present with her family and to taste her meal, but one awful scenario after another, broken images of Matthew, kept pressing in on her. She took another sip of wine.

Carson appeared in the doorway. "Telephone call for you, my lord."

Everyone looked to Robert, their forks and glasses paused in mid-air. He nodded and rose without meeting anyone's eyes.

There was a distant swell of cheering from across the great hall as he moved towards the open door, and the ubiquitous popping sound of a vigorous table tennis match resumed as he left the room.

Violet sat back with a crestfallen expression as she smoothed her hands on her lap. "Oh, really, it's like living in a second-rate hotel where the guests keep arriving and no one seems to leave." She heaved a sigh. No one said anything in response.

Mary frowned and stood up from the table without a word. After a series of surprised glances, the rest of the family rose as well and filed out, going through to the sitting room. Various people made small comments on dresses and inquiries about the children as they walked, but the polite attempts at conversation did little to dispel the heavy mood. Demonstrating how unusual the evening was, Anthony joined the women.

Robert was holding the telephone receiver to his ear and when he saw them crossing past him, he turned his back.

Mary made no pretense of continuing through with the others, although her mother and sisters all looked back with wide, beckoning eyes. There was only one reason why someone would call tonight during the dinner hour, and her heart was tight in her chest as she stood listening.

"I see," her father murmured quietly into the telephone. "Yes. Thank you for letting me know." He put the receiver on its handle and Mary steeled herself. She could see that his hands trembled slightly.

Mary held her own tightly in front of her. "Was that the War Office?"

He didn't answer at first. He slowly set the telephone down and straightened with a tight nod. He didn't meet her eyes and her heart gave a hard squeeze.

 _Just tell me!_  she wanted to shout, but she only pressed her lips together.

"Matthew and William went out on a patrol a few days ago and they haven't been seen since."

Mary gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, reaching out with her other to steady herself against the table. She looked up with wide eyes, begging for an explanation, for something to disprove what she feared, but she saw only pain in her father's expression.

"Let's not fall to pieces quite yet," he said quietly, his brow creasing. "It happens all the time, apparently, and the men turn up in one field hospital or another."

"But they  _are_  considered missing in action?" Mary managed, lowering her hand and matching her father's mien. He'd been through this before; he knew how to face it.

He shook his head. "It's too early for that. There could be lots of things to explain it."

"Such as?" a new voice asked.

Mary and Robert turned to see Isobel standing beside them. The rest of the family hovered several feet behind her.

Mary turned back to hear his answer, but his face only tightened and he swallowed as he took them all in. Then he lifted a hand to scratch at his forehead, holding his fingers there for a long moment, hiding his face in shadow. Mary's heart squeezed painfully.

"Could they have been taken prisoner?" Edith asked.

Robert lowered his hand and drew in a deep breath. "It's possible."

Stepping forward, he took Mary's hand as his features settled into a worried frown. She held his hand and covered it with her free one, drawing a step closer to him, giving and receiving what meagre comfort there was to be had. He put his free hand on Isobel's shoulder and then he released them both after a moment, crossing to stand beside Cora.

Mary looked to Anthony for some reassurance, but his face was just as pale as the rest. He pressed his lips together as he met her eyes. Then his gaze fell to his useless arm, where it hung across his chest in its sling as it always would, and he swallowed and looked down at Edith beside him. She pressed a comforting hand to his good arm and something passed silently between them.

"I think it's time for us to take our leave," Anthony said to Robert.

Robert nodded. "Thank you for coming this evening. I'm glad we can all be together at a time like this."

Mary found Isobel's hand and held it; Isobel squeezed back.

"I'll have the cars brought round, my lord," Carson said quietly. "And I'll inform everyone downstairs about William."

Robert nodded and Carson left.

There was a sudden pause in the background popping sounds and a raucous cheer rose from the library. The family stood in the great hall, their expressions frozen.

"Will the concert tomorrow still go ahead?" Isobel finally asked.

Mary frowned at Isobel.  _Who cares about the stupid concert?_

"Of course," Robert answered after a moment, straightening and pulling back his shoulders with a visible effort. "It must."

"We mustn't give up hope. Not yet," Cora agreed.

"We have to keep going, whatever happens," Robert said. He looked at Cora, then at Mary. "We have to help each other to keep going."

Mary blanched at the prospect of singing under such circumstances, but what was the alternative? To sit alone at Crawley House mourning something that might not even have happened?

Her eyes stung as she blinked and lifted her chin. She met her father's eyes, then looked away with a faint nod.

* * *

Major Bryant finished his magic act with a lacquered smile and a sweep of his shiny black top hat, and Edith brought her piano accompaniment to an end. She turned with a relieved and encouraging nod to Mary, beckoning her forward. Bracing herself, Mary rose and put a bright smile on her face as she strode down the main aisle.

She addressed the roomful of officers and servants. "Most of you won't know how rare it is to see my sister Edith and I pulling together in a double act..."

Cora, who was seated beside Anthony and Robert, leaned towards them with a wide smile and murmured,  _sotto voce,_  "A unicorn if ever I saw one!"

Mary reached the piano and put her hand on it, assuming a cheerful posture and smiling at the crowd of wounded men. "...but in wartime, we, like all of you, have more important things to worry about. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Crawley Sisters."

"Well, now I've seen everything," Violet muttered, from where she sat on Robert's other side.

Edith played the opening chords and Mary began to sing, her pleasant alto filling the crowded library.

 _Sometimes when I feel bad_  
_And things look blue_  
_I wish a pal I had... say, one like you_  
_Someone within my heart to build a throne_  
_Someone who'd never part to call my own_

She smiled and made an expansive gesture, inviting everyone to sing the familiar chorus with her.

 _If you were the only girl in the world_  
_And I were the only boy_  
_Nothing else would matter in the world today_  
_We could go on loving in the same old way..._

A bit of movement in the back of the room caught Mary's eye; one of the officers was arriving late to the concert. She opened her mouth to sing the next line and then his profile came into view—

_Matthew!_

He smiled at the assembled crowd as he moved to the back of the center aisle, his expression calm and relaxed, as if he hadn't a care in the world, as if he were pleasantly surprised to have walked in on a cheerful little party. He stood straight and tall, unharmed, holding his cap under his left arm and his gloves in his left hand, and William came to stand behind him, his cap also under his left arm.

_Alive! Matthew was alive!_

The song had died away as everyone twisted to see what she was staring at, and her father leapt to his feet the moment he recognised the new arrivals.

Mary's eyes fell closed as a weight she hadn't known was there rolled off her shoulders and her soul bobbed up. "Thank God!" she whispered.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that her father had reached Matthew and was pumping his hand.

"My dear boy!" Robert managed, his voice thick with emotion. "My very dear boy!"

Matthew's brow furrowed and his mouth dropped open slightly, but he gave Robert a warm smile. Cora leapt to her feet with a gasp, half in tears.

Trembling from head to toe herself, Mary's grip on the piano was the only thing preventing her from hurling herself down the aisle and into Matthew's arms, sobbing with relief.

But the men around them didn't know that anything had been amiss, and her joy—her family's joy—would remain a private, treasured thing. There would be time enough later for unbridled displays of passion.

A giddy humour filled her as she envisioned just exactly how unbridled she soon planned to be.

Matthew had been taking in the room and he released Robert's hand as his eyes fell on her. She immediately felt a shot of warmth as their eyes met and she gave a little gasp-sob and covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed and half-cried and watched him approach her with a brilliant smile on his face. His own eyes were glistening as he strode towards her, opening his arms.

_Oh, damn propriety!_

She flew across the short distance between them and threw her arms around his neck. He grunted at the impact and then laughed as he held her, one-armed, and said softly near her ear, "Oh, my darling!"

She was too overcome for words; she just gave another laugh-sob and then sank back down on to her heels and smiled up at him. They could not kiss with a whole room watching, so she smiled all the more to compensate. He grinned down at her.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Robert said, and Mary stood back slightly, wiping at her eyes. "We are delighted to welcome home two members of the Downton Abbey family whom we were told were missing in action, Private William Mason, and my daughter's husband, Captain Matthew Crawley."

The room erupted in an uproar of applause and a smattering of "Thank God!'s" and "Bravo!'s" before someone called out "Kiss! Kiss!" The rest of the room quickly echoed the chant and Matthew and Mary blushed as they took it all in.

Violet was the only one not looking the least bit enthusiastic about the situation, but the commanding glint in her eyes made them laugh.  _Give them what they want and end this scandalous display._

They obeyed, Mary lifting her mouth to his for a chaste kiss. Then she gave a slight yelp as she suddenly found herself toppling, and Matthew covered her mouth with his own, tilting her down and holding her securely in his arms, his cap pressed between them.

She tensed in surprise at first and then laughed against his lips and surrendered herself to him. The room went wild around them.

He pulled up with a grin and straightened, setting her gently back on her feet, and the room settled down.

"Honestly," they heard Violet mutter near them. "What is this, a vaudeville revue?"

They laughed and Mary's cheeks burned as she pressed her forehead against Matthew's shoulder.

"Come on," he said loudly, giving a slightly embarrassed laugh as he addressed the crowd. He stepped back and took her hand, leading her to the front of the room. "Don't stop for me."

The two of them turned and faced the room, still holding hands, and Matthew began to sing in a clear, light tenor. Edith quickly caught up with him on the piano, and Mary joined in a heartbeat after.

_I would say such wonderful things to you  
There would be such wonderful things to do_

Their eyes met and they smiled as they continued, the whole room joining them now.

_If you were the only girl in the world  
And I were the only boy_

The whole room burst into applause, and Matthew blushed and looked down, laughing. Mary just watched him, unable to take her eyes away from his face. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his lips curved, and every familiar movement that he made filled her heart to the brim and overflowed its boundaries, suffusing her with joy.

_Matthew was alive!_

* * *

"Why didn't you ever tell me that you could sing?" Matthew asked, smiling at Mary as everyone filed out of the library and into the great hall for punch and light refreshments. "You have a lovely voice."

Mary was glowing; she had obviously long since lost the battle to keep her face composed. "I could ask the same of you," she replied, turning slightly this way and that as she spoke. Everything in her manner shouted to him how desperately she wanted to touch him. He grinned and reached for her hand—

"Matthew!" Robert exclaimed, reaching them, Isobel in tow. "It is  _so_  good to see you!"

Isobel embraced Matthew and he held her a moment before releasing her. She smiled up at him with bright eyes, pressing her lips together as she did.

"What happened to you and William?" Robert asked.

Matthew glanced between them. "Somehow we got lost, and then we were trapped behind some Germans for three days. When we got out of that, we stumbled into a field dressing station where we were immediately admitted, but we weren't in any danger, so they didn't inform our unit."

Robert gave a relieved laugh. "Well, they should have jolly well told us when you got back to base."

Matthew spoke with a slight frown. "I'm surprised they told you we were missing in action. Three days isn't long enough for that designation."

"No, I know," Robert said. "But when I introduced you, I didn't want there to be any doubt that you are both heroes."

Matthew looked down at the floor, abashed. "Well, I wouldn't say  _that_. We just got lost. Nothing particularly heroic there."

"On the contrary," Robert began, and Isobel looked about to join him.

Mrs Hughes appeared at his elbow. "I beg your pardon, my lord, but the Dowager Countess is leaving."

"Ah." Robert nodded and moved towards the front door, Mrs Hughes following him.

"I think I'll leave, too," Isobel said. "It's been a long day." She smiled up at Matthew. "Don't stay too long."

"Let's go home," Mary said quietly, drawing close to him. "Before you're accosted by any more well-wishers."

Matthew chuckled and nodded. "There's nothing I want more."

* * *

Mary started to ascend the stairs at Crawley House as Molesley hung up her coat, but Matthew caught her hand and she turned in surprise.

"Come this way," he said with a bright smile, tugging her gently.

She followed him, intrigued. "Where are we going?" she asked. He led her down the hall towards the back door. "Are you all right?"

He chuckled and held the door open for her. "I'm fantastic, darling."

Mary walked out into the back garden. The air held a chill and the only light was cast by the yellow glow from the kitchen windows. She looked around, not seeing anything of note, and then fixed her eyes on the handsome figure of her husband, who had pushed the door closed behind him and now stood on the step, his face half-hidden in shadow. She felt a small shiver of anticipation and she smiled.

He stepped down and approached her with deliberation, tilting his head and making a pleased, appreciative sound. As he held out his hands to her she took them, wondering what he was about.

His hands slid up her arms and she soon found herself swaying as he began to move them in a slow dance to music she couldn't hear...until she realised he was humming softly. She didn't know this tune and she listened closely. Their feet shuffled on the ground as they turned in time with its melody.

Then, to her surprise and delight, he began to sing. He pulled back slightly, looking down at her as they danced, and the lights from the kitchen made his eyes glow with warmth.

 _Why people rave about wonderful nights_  
_Is one thing I never could see_  
_I've play'd the game and I've seen all the sights_  
_So you can take it from me_

 _Any old night is a wonderful night_  
_If you're there with a wonderful girl_  
_Whether you stroll in romantic moonlight_  
_Or in a ballroom you whirl_  
_I've seen the glad nights, the mad nights_  
_The dry nights, the wet_  
_But there are some nights I never forget_  
_Any old night is a wonderful night_  
_If you're there with a wonderful girl_

By the third time through the chorus, she had learned it and she joined him, making his already lovely smile widen into a grin, and he half-giggled through a lyric. When they neared the end of the chorus, his grip on her hand changed and she felt the shift in the pressure of his arm against her side...so when he spun her out at the finish, she stepped away smoothly, her heart in flight, and came back into his arms again. He held her close—indeed, for nearly the whole of their dance he'd held her closer than was proper for dancing, but she didn't mind at all—and she tucked her head against his shoulder as he hummed the final bars, finally bringing them slowly to a stop.

She sighed, her heart glowing and her eyes filled with happy tears. She turned her face up and met him for a kiss.

He kissed her with more restraint than she expected, however, and when she frowned up at him in questioning disappointment, he gave a subtle tilt of his head in the direction of the house, a smile on his lips. She turned to look—and found at least two faces quickly disappearing as the curtains fell closed. Isobel and Anna, and possibly even Molesley in the background. Mary's cheeks burned and she grinned, hiding her face in Matthew's shoulder.

He laughed softly, rubbing her back.

"How long have they been watching?" Mary asked, her voice slightly muffled against his tunic.

"A minute or two, at least," he answered, still chuckling.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, pulling away slightly and trying to put a tone of disapproval into her voice. She was fairly certain that she hadn't succeeded, particularly because she couldn't erase the grin from her face. Really, she'd been smiling like an uncouth American since Matthew had appeared in the library.

"And spoil the lovely expression on your face as you danced with me?" he retorted. "Not a chance."

Mary rested her cheek against his shoulder with a happy sigh. "I love you so terribly much. Thank you for this." His lips pressed against her temple and his arms held her securely.

"I've been dreaming of this moment for weeks," Matthew murmured.

She pulled back to look up at him. "You have?"

"Lt. Beaudoin brought a gramophone back to base after his last leave, and that was one of the five records he brought with him. Every time it played, all I could think of was you."

"We haven't danced since Maidenhead," Mary sighed, resting her head against him again. "I've missed it."

"Me, too. When the war is over, I want us to have a gramophone."

Mary laughed then paused, her mood sobering. Matthew almost never spoke of his hopes for after the war. He seemed reluctant to make plans and with good reason, she supposed. Each day he was away from her the odds against him increased. Mary fervently wished that the war had ended the day before yesterday, for she had a heart full of hopes and no place to put them. She'd almost lost him this time...she'd thought for sure she had, and she'd felt so terribly hollowed out. Her desire for a child was a vast, aching thing now and she could no longer hold it back. She wanted to know that some part of her beautiful Matthew would continue on even if he could not. She wanted to present him with his son or daughter and watch his face light up. She wanted to see him standing before her holding his own child in his arms, not someone else's. She squeezed her eyes closed as they burned.

"I thought I'd lost you," she said, and her voice wavered.

A slight tremor ran through his frame and then his arms tightened briefly around her. He buried his face in her neck before pulling back.

"Oh God, Mary, I'm so sorry." He looked up at her hair, stroking it with reverent fingers. "The thought of making it back to you..." His voice became a whisper. "I would endure anything to come back to you."

She lifted her lips to his, giving him a chaste kiss, and his hands slid down to her waist.

They remained in a close embrace for several seconds more, and Mary felt Matthew's desire for her begin to grow. She had a wanton urge to take him right there in the garden, but of course that was out of the question, so she stepped back with a grin, holding his hand. It was her turn to lead him, and she tugged him towards the house.

"Come inside. I want to do more with you than this garden permits."

He laughed and quickly caught up with her, pulling her around to face him, and he cupped her cheeks and kissed her thoroughly. She gasped a little to catch her breath and after a long, delicious silence, she drew back. She moved to ask for more, but he stepped away from her.

She frowned at his apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said as she pouted. "I came just off the train. I washed my face and hands and had a shave in the men's at Waterloo Station, but I'm in desperate need of a bath." At her sudden grimacing look down the length of his body, he laughed and repeated. "Desperate."

"You don't smell  _that_  badly," she said.

He smirked. "Thank you. But it's not that. I don't want to tell you what might be living in the seams of my trousers."

When her lip curled up in distaste, he laughed again and caught her for a brief kiss, despite her now-slightly-resisting form.

"I'll be as quick as I can," he said. "I asked Molesley to draw a bath when we came in."

She slapped at his arm playfully. "I was just a means of taking up the time!"

"Ahh," he agreed, reaching past her to pull open the back door of Crawley House. "But a most lovely and welcome one."

They went into the hall and parted at the stairs.

"Don't be too long, darling," she said with a broad smile.

"I wouldn't dream of it." And he made her laugh when he took the stairs two at a time.

Still chuckling, Mary glanced into the front room. Isobel sat at her desk as though she had always been there, writing a letter. It was rather incongruous to see her there, dressed in her finest gown at this late hour, but from her studied air of nonchalance, Mary suspected her mother-in-law was waiting to speak with her. Mary smiled and made to enter the room to bid Isobel good night, but checked herself as she crossed the threshold. She paused with her hand on the doorframe and frowned.

Matthew. A child. She looked up at Isobel with a sudden thought. A rush of them, really, including Isobel's long-ago comment about how difficult it had been to conceive Matthew. Mary suddenly feared that perhaps she'd been doing something wrong this entire time, making love to Matthew improperly, and perhaps that was why she hadn't conceived. Everything had always seemed to go very smoothly between them, but what did Mary know of such things? She was seized with a desperate need to ask someone who might know: a mother, someone with medical training, someone who had admitted to struggling with infertility.

She slowly approached the couch, unsure of how to broach so private a topic. Perhaps her own mother might be more suitable—but no, Mary could not possibly visit Downton Abbey again tonight. Matthew would be ready soon, and so must she be. They had only three days, three terribly short days. Mary gripped the back of the couch and stared at Isobel, working up her resolve.

Isobel had set down her pen and was watching Mary with a soft expression, her eyes bright in the low light of the room. They were damp, Mary realised. She gave a little sigh, recalling what Isobel had likely seen in the garden, and decided that there was no point in hiding anything from her mother-in-law. Isobel could hardly be ignorant of what Mary and Matthew had planned for the evening.

Drawing herself and her courage up, Mary came around the couch and sat down upon it.

Isobel regarded her with a look of amusement.

"You seem rather...nervous, dear. I would not have expected that of you after all this time."

Mary hid a smile by clearing her throat. She swallowed and sat forward a little, putting a hand on the arm of the couch.

"I need your advice," she began. "I...I think I might be doing...something...improperly."

Isobel's eyebrows rose, but then she composed herself, folded her hands in her lap, and assumed the listening posture that Mary had seen her adopt so often at the hospital.

"Your relations with Matthew, you mean," Isobel said.

Mary felt her cheeks burn, but she pressed on. This was so terribly important. "Yes."

Isobel's face broke into a kind smile. "I highly doubt it, my dear."

"How do you know?" Mary asked. "How can you?"

"Are both of you usually satisfied with the proceedings?"

"Yes..."

"Then you are not 'doing something improperly'."

"But I'm—" Mary swallowed, pressed on still further. "I'm not...a mother."

Isobel nodded, her expression serious again.

"I thought you might know. That you might understand." Mary floundered, feeling uncharacteristically out of her depth. "After...what you said."

"About how Reginald and I struggled to have a child?" Isobel asked. "Yes, of course I understand."

"What did you do?" Mary asked. "Differently, I mean."

"In making love to my husband, nothing," Isobel replied, with no hesitation or shame in her manner. "But after a time, we realised that I needed to see a specialist. Reginald knew only the basics of obstetrics and gynaecology."

Mary took this in, her gaze shifting to the fire. "Do you think something might be wrong with me?"

"Or with Matthew," Isobel replied, her voice quiet. "Do not think of it as 'wrong', my dear. There is nothing 'wrong' with either of you. But..."

Her voice trailed off and Mary looked up at her with an awful dread.

"But what?" Her throat was dry.

Isobel's posture had changed, and the look in her eyes gripped Mary. Isobel blinked and her hands shook slightly, and soon it was she who was looking at the fire.

"I, too, was assaulted by a man before my marriage," Isobel said, and Mary's pulse jumped.  _Isobel knew._  How? But it did not matter. Mary felt as though her eyes were glued to Isobel's aged face and her heart went out to the other woman. It must have happened a very long time ago, Mary thought, but Isobel's frame was taut with the memory of it, as though it were only yesterday. Mary understood; oh how terribly did she understand.

She stood up and crossed to her mother-in-law. Isobel broke from her thoughts and looked up at Mary in slight surprise. Then she smiled through the tears in her eyes and lifted her hands to take Mary's.

Mary pressed the wrinkled hands, feeling for the first time, with belated surprise, how old Isobel was. She had such energy and fierce intelligence that it was easy to forget that she was only a few years younger than Granny. Old enough by far to be a grandmother. Mary's heart squeezed again. She would love to be able to put a grandchild in Isobel's arms, too.

"You will have children, my dear," Isobel said with conviction, and Mary felt a tingle run up her spine.

Isobel looked taken aback a moment, and then she drew one of her hands away and quickly ran it beneath her eye, giving Mary a brief, apologetic smile. Mary pulled open a nearby drawer in the writing desk and plucked out a handkerchief, holding it for Isobel. The older woman gave a short breath of a laugh and nodded as she took it, quickly dabbing at her eyes.

"I love you, Mary," she said.

Mary pressed her lips together and blinked, then squeezed the hand that remained in her grasp. "I love you, too, Isobel."

Isobel smiled up at her, then gathered herself and straightened, her businesslike demeanour returning. "Your mother mentioned a specialist in London, a Dr Ryder," Isobel said. "She assured me you could not be in better hands than his, so I made inquiries a few months ago." When Mary frowned, Isobel quickly put out a hand. "I did not say on whose behalf I was making the inquiries."

"What did you learn?" Mary asked, relaxing slightly.

"He's serving with the Medical Corps," Isobel replied, and Mary's heart dropped, "but he's expected back sometime soon for leave."

Mary frowned. "How could I impose on him in such a fashion?"

"He has been known to see  _particular_  patients while he's in London," Isobel said, giving Mary a significant look.

Mary drew in a breath of dismay. "I would need to tell his secretary who I am."

"It is your decision, of course."

Mary swallowed and nodded.

"If you require anything, my dear, you need only ask."

"I know," Mary said, smiling as Isobel pressed her hand before releasing it.

"Now go. Enjoy your evening." Isobel's grin gained a distinctly cheeky air. "And don't worry about doing a single thing improperly."

With a half-bashful, half-cheeky grin of her own, Mary hurried to obey.

* * *

When he pushed open the door to their bedroom, Matthew smiled at the sight of Mary rising from her vanity with a glowing look on her face. He turned slightly to close the door behind him, and then Mary was upon him. She met him with such force that he stumbled back a step and found himself pressed against the door as her mouth plundered his. Giving a throaty laugh, he quickly regained his footing and responded in kind.

Mary kissed Matthew with a fierce mixture of delight and intense relief, and she laughed at his laugh and pressed her hips against his, enjoying the sensation of having trapped him against the door. Feeling his body responding to hers, she smiled against his lips, breaking the kiss. He was alive and whole and in her arms and all hers! She tilted her head to the other side and met him again, relearning his taste and the feel of his tongue playing with hers and remembering that  _oh yes he liked to do that_  and laughing with joy because he was here and he was doing it.

Despite the passion of their kiss, he held her in a loose embrace and she wanted  _more_ , so she snaked her arms around both sides of his torso, and squeezed him with a happy possessiveness.

He jerked and moaned, his teeth skittering across her lips as he pulled back with a hiss and reached down to break her embrace.

She immediately released him, confused by the sound of his moan: it wasn't the usual sound of pleasure from him. She stepped back with a frown, rubbing at the tender spot where he'd bitten her. It hadn't been a gentle nip.

He had one arm across his chest, that hand holding his side gingerly, and he lifted his other hand up in a staying gesture.

"I'm sorry," he said with a wince, hissing again and dropping his hand. "Damn it—ow." He straightened carefully and breathed, lines of pain creasing his features.

She lifted her hand uncertainly, wanting to comfort him.

"What did I do wrong?" she asked, letting her hand fall back to her side.

"Nothing," he said, and he made an attempt at a smile. "You didn't know. I hid this so as not to worry anyone. I didn't want Mother to fuss over me. Apparently, I did too good of a job." He gave a short laugh, then winced again.

Mary felt a dread certainty. "You're hurt."

He tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"What happened?"

The look in his eyes was apologetic as he swallowed. "I was...shot."

She gasped and covered her mouth with shaking hands, then immediately dropped them and stepped forward.

"Let me see," she said, and she began quickly working through the buttons on his pyjama shirt.

He dropped his arm to give her access but protested. "There's nothing to see, darling. It was just a near miss. I'm not to remove the dressing for two more days."

Mary ignored him and finished opening his shirt. His ribs were wrapped with a soft, off-white bandage, and the edges of a thin pad were poking above and below the fabric.

"What happened?" she asked again, her fingers drifting lightly over the bandage but never touching the pad—she didn't want to hurt him again. The pain seemed to have receded: he was breathing more normally now and his face had some of its colour back.

He sighed. "William and I were on patrol. There was a sudden skirmish between a nearby unit and the pair of snipers that we'd spotted, and we picked the wrong direction to run towards. We didn't realize until a couple of hours later that we were trapped behind the German line and that they were patrolling for  _us_. They got off a few shots before we were able to hide."

"Was William hit, too?"

"No, thank God. I was between him and them."

Mary wasn't so sure that that was something to be thankful for, but she didn't voice the thought.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her throat dry.

"It just grazed me," he assured her. "Nothing vital was hit."

"But...three days?" she asked. "You must have been in a bad state if it took that long for someone to see to it."

"No," he said. "William put my field dressing on it. It bled like the dickens at first, but it let up not long after."

She nodded and pressed her lips together, trembling slightly. Her stomach turned at the thought of him bleeding in some cold, faraway field and she fought to keep her composure. She still hadn't gotten past seeing him walk into the library alive and whole and beaming at her,  _singing_  with her, and here he now stood, reminding her—as if she could ever forget!—that the threat was real, that he might not have come back this time after all.

"Oh, Matthew!" Her voice wavered more than she'd wanted it to.

He held his arms open. "Come here," he said softly, and she stepped into his embrace. She slid her arms around his waist, underneath his open shirt, keeping her hands always near the waistband of his trousers as she carefully avoided his wound. His skin was warm and comforting against hers.

They stood quietly together for a long moment, their eyes closed and their lips parted as they breathed.

Matthew rested his cheek against her temple, quieting her tremors as he rubbed gentle circles on her back. When he felt her relax against him once more, he gave a contented sigh. Her breath ran across his neck, heightening the sensitivity of his skin, and his profound gratitude mixed with desire. He smiled, savouring the moment.

_This. This is worth fighting for._

When he felt her tilt her head up towards his, he found her lips with his own and tugged at them gently; a chaste kiss, peaceful and comforting, and he shared a soft moan with her.

"Can we still...?" she murmured.

"Yes." He opened his eyes, meeting her upturned gaze. Her eyes were beautiful, the rich, dark brown that he dearly loved, and her face was filled with warmth and love for him.

And desire. He let a slow smile rise on his face, watching as she relaxed and finally gave him the brilliant smile that he knew she would. He reached up to cup one of her cheeks and he stroked his thumb over her cheekbone.

"I love you so terribly much," he whispered.

She didn't answer in words; instead, she drew her hands up across his skin, skimming his chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a fierce kiss. He bent; she pressed up on her tiptoes; and this time, she hummed with pleasure. He cupped her bottom and hummed back in a lower tone, amused and aroused. Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down her soft skin until he'd settled against the curve of her neck. It was glorious, but bending in this fashion tugged at his wound, making it sting, so he straightened up again.

"Bed," he commanded, carefully shrugging off his shirt.

With a chuckle, she withdrew and led the way. They pulled back the covers and lay down, quickly reaching for one another again. He allowed her to tug his trousers down and he grinned as she tossed them aside without watching where they fell. She approached him eagerly, her own grin lascivious and hungry, and she straddled him, crouching over him and kissing him as he threaded his fingers into her braided hair and pressed up against her eagerly.

He raised his eyebrows and broke the kiss. "You're not wearing any pants."

"Of course I'm not," she replied tartly, sitting back and bringing herself into full contact with him. He groaned. "That would defeat the point, I should think."

He was already running his hands along her thighs, pushing her nightgown up over the rounded curve of her lovely bottom, and he laughed.

She finished the job for him, quickly lifting the garment over her head and tossing it aside with as much casual disregard as she had his trousers. She shook her hair loose and then she was on him again.

He moaned into her mouth as she reached down between them and stroked him, gently at first and then more firmly, and he curled up towards her involuntarily, breaking the kiss as his body rode the intense wave of pleasure. Her low laugh only encouraged him to produce another moan.

_This! Yes, this, finally..._

His belly was up against a tree root, his face pressed into the dirt under the embankment; he was cold and wet and his side was sore, the wound torn open again by the violence of his dive to hide—

Matthew gasped, shivering from the cold—no, the  _memory_  of cold!

The tree, the dirt, Mason huddled behind him, the ground shuddering from the pounding of German boots above them...it was all gone.

Instead, Mary hovered just above him, a look of confusion and concern on her face.

What had  _that_  been?

"Darling?" she asked softly, and the curtains of dark hair that surrounded her face and neck were the same dark brown shade as the dirt—

" _No_ ," Matthew said, setting his jaw. No. It would  _not_  intrude here, not now. Not when he'd waited  _so long_ , not when he'd huddled in the cold and the dark and held on to his sanity by imagining Downton, and this room, and Mary sleeping safely and peacefully in it, waiting for him. He had not made it this far only to have this stolen from him, too.

He gave a growl and grasped her bottom, lifting his head to kiss her with fierce determination, in defiance of the stinging burn in his side. He would forget all of that. He would lose himself in the here and now, in the joy and pleasure of being one with her again, in the warm silk of her skin; the firmness of her body under his hands; the way her nipples brushed against his chest and set him afire.

She met him, her response uncertain at first, but she quickly returned to her earlier passion. Their mouths locked and broke apart and locked again, fingers exploring, confirming, readying. She pulled back with a smile, her lips reddened from their passion, and then moved down his body and lowered her head over his hips.

He closed his eyes, pressing his palms hard against the bed and arching back into the pillow as she ran the wet warmth of her tongue repeatedly along the length of him. His whole body was rigid with eagerness and helpless arousal and he gave another moan.

"There," she murmured, and he opened his eyes and watched her move until she was astride him again. He groaned as she slid on to him and then he just let his eyes drift closed as he breathed in relief.

Home. He was home again.

They moved eagerly together and her hair brushed against his shoulders and upper arms, a light tickling sensation that he didn't mind in the least. He turned his head towards the dark, moving curtain, inhaling deeply and smiling. The scent of her soap was familiar, and he was here with her, smelling it. Home.

She allowed his hands to roam wherever he wished over her body. She merely kept her eyes on his face—except, of course, when he did something that caused her mouth to fall open and her eyes to flutter closed. Then he would smile in satisfaction, confident that he still knew her, that whatever else being over there might have tried to take from him, it would never take away this.

She suddenly tightened  _hard_  around him and gave a small moan and he gasped, forcefully thrusting up into her, following the instinctive reaction of his body. She had arched, bringing her breasts closer to him. He couldn't lift his head without causing his side to sting, so he plucked at her nipples with his fingers, teasing her to see how much more he could draw from her body.

" _Matthew_..." she moaned, her body squeezing his again, and he smiled. To know her in this way, so passionate and wanton and at his mercy, even as he was at hers: _yes_.

She tightened around him and rose up, teasing at him with her exquisite body as she slowly lowered herself again. His eyes fell closed and he gave a series of low, open-mouthed moans as she hummed approvingly in response. She settled down on to him again and took his face in her hands, holding him still and kissing him with deliberation. When he ran his fingers up her bottom, she started to clench her legs around his torso, then immediately stopped. He did, too.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," she breathed, looking down at him.

He shook his head and reached up to stroke her hair back from her face, smiling up at her. "You didn't hurt me," he said. "You just came close."

She frowned. "I'm not sure I can help you finish this way if I can't brace against you. Can you hold yourself up above me?"

"Possibly." He grimaced. "I don't want to try, though. I don't think I'd be able to last."

She nodded and glanced to either side, a thoughtful frown still on her face.

He smiled. "Shh, don't worry. Up," he commanded gently, encouraging her with his hands, and she obeyed, kneeling beside him. He rolled on to his uninjured side, facing her, and coaxed her to lie down on her side as well, with her back to him. Although they had never tried it before, it promised to be a peaceful position. He held his arm up carefully to ensure that his elbow didn't bump against his side, and pulled himself against her.

Letting his hand drift along her body, he slipped his palm down over the front of her thigh and encouraged her to lift her leg and wrap it back over his own...and as she opened, he slipped into her with a soft sigh. She made a pleased sound and settled firmly back against him, drawing him close with the strength of her upraised leg. He locked their upper bodies together loosely, settling his forearm between her breasts.

"Is this all right?" he asked.

"Mmmm," she hummed, resting her arm over his and relaxing against him. He moved contentedly, happy that this idea had worked after all.

His contentment was short-lived, however, as his pleasure began to mount. With the encouraging pressure of her leg, he thrust more quickly, listening to her small sounds and focusing on the way she tightened and relaxed around him. She started to draw her leg away, but he moved his hand down quickly, anchoring himself against her thigh. He moved more forcefully, feeling himself beginning to climax. He thrust,  _so close_ ; he buried his face in her hair, pressed his nose against her neck, opened his mouth to breathe,  _still alive_ —

—and peaking—

—the smell of earth, of cold and wet and dark brown dirt—

—no, dark brown  _hair_ — _Mary_ —

— _yes, Mary, he would be home soon_ —

—NO he already  _was_  home!—

—God, he hated this—

—and it felt—

_so good_

Matthew crested and shuddered, flooded with pleasure and relief—

_Do you even deserve to feel this good anymore, after what you've done? After all the men you've lost?_

_NO!_  his heart cried.  _I haven't done anything wrong!_

_You have killed. Over and over, again and again. Life ending in an awful spurt, blood running down under your sleeves, men wounded, men dying, too many men to bring back, you couldn't save them all, and on some days, you hadn't saved any. You'd lost them, the men you'd trained and fought beside. Lineker's bawdy jokes that never failed to make you chuckle, Stevens gone in the fog and clouds of dirt, missing in action, missing, never found, Davis's breaths straining in his chest, that horrible death rattle..._

Face after face after face—

_Oh, please, not here, too! Am I to be left no comforts at all?_

Matthew gave a broken cry that was muffled against Mary's neck and he clung to her with single-minded desperation.

Mary froze for several long seconds in surprise. Panic began to rise in her at his unfamiliar forcefulness. His forearm was an iron band across her chest and it was so tight it was uncomfortable. Then she  _remembered_  this sensation and deliberately forced herself to relax, carefully reaching up to stroke his hand where his fingers dug into her upper arm.

The suddenness of his hard grip reminded her of a day when Edward had clung to her in a moment of fright at the sight of an old stallion who had approached the paddock fence and suddenly thrust his nose against the boy. It had only been a friendly gesture on the part of the horse, but Edward had flung himself off the fence and thrown his arms around Mary's neck in panic, his small limbs cutting off her air a moment, until she was able to quieten him and extract herself, finally calming both the boy and the horse.

So she stroked Matthew's hand and a bit of his arm now, purposely relaxed her body, and loved him, waiting until he came back to himself and to her. She didn't understand why it was happening, but she knew that he needed her to help him calm himself; she understood well how suddenly a bad memory could overtake a pleasant moment. He would not hurt her. It was Matthew: gentle, clever, teasing, beautiful Matthew. He loved her and he did not mean to hurt her now.

She made quiet calming sounds, as she used to do with Diamond, as she'd done with Old Juniper and Edward, and she stroked Matthew's arm, and relaxed, and breathed, and fought her own knot of emotions.

His grip relaxed by inches until he finally released her and lay, seeming exhausted, behind her. She made a tentative movement and encountered no resistance; instead, he pulled out of her, so she rolled to face him, almost afraid of what she would see.

But of course there was nothing to fear; only her heart twisting in her chest at the sight of his wet cheeks and reddened eyes. She carefully reached up and touched his face and he let her. Growing more confident, she stroked her fingers through his damp hair, smoothing back a lock here, a lock there, a strand that lay against his temple. She was gratified to see his eyes drift closed and to feel his breathing quieten. She thought him beginning to settle into sleep when he suddenly lifted his hand and touched her elbow. She stilled her hand against his cheek as he ran his fingers up the length of her forearm, finally holding her palm in place as he turned his face towards it and kissed it, his eyes still closed.

"I love you," she whispered.

The sides of his mouth pulled down and he moved his hand up to cover his eyes as he fought a fresh sob. She felt the tendons of his other forearm tighten underneath her as his fist clenched against her back, and his stomach and shoulders shook as he lost the battle.

The sound tore at her and she felt as though all her efforts were useless. Wherever Matthew was right now, whatever he'd brought home with him, whatever horrors her imagination tried to conjure as she watched him from the outside, he was beyond her care.

 _Dear Lord, please_...

She had no more credit with Him than that, and no words to speak even if she had felt that she could.

She tried to cuddle closer to Matthew, to soothe him again as she had before, but he only pressed a quick, damp kiss to her forehead, pulled his arm out from underneath her, and rolled away from her. Then he hissed, and laughed—of all the sounds she had expected, that was not it—and flopped on to his back again.

He was giggling now, very softly, and he ran his hands down his face.

"Lord..." he muttered, with an air of weary humour.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She wasn't sure whether she ought to smile—what was the joke?—so she settled for just pressing her lips together and raising her eyebrows in question as she looked at him.

"I was going to turn my back on you, to deal with this alone," Matthew said, clearing his throat as his voice broke. He drew in a deep breath. "Apparently, that's not to be." He gave a wry smile that she couldn't help feeling was mixed with pain. "I can't lie on this side, of course," he explained, gesturing at his bandaged pad. "And I can't brood for long when I'm looking at you, darling."

"If you want me to leave you alone—"

"No," he said, reaching for her and drawing her back down beside him. "That is not what I need. I need you here, warm and alive and—" his voice caught but he pressed on, "—reminding me that I can't take you for granted."

"We must never take us for granted," she said. "Who knows what's coming?"

"Well, I have to take one thing for granted," he murmured softly. "That I will love you until the last breath leaves my body."

Mary held back tears as she lifted her head to look at him. "Oh, my darling, me, too!" She laid her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes as she felt him press a kiss to her hair. "Me, too."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"No, shhh," she said quietly, giving his belly a gentle rub. "I know only too well what it is to have unwanted memories intrude."

Matthew was silent for a long moment.

"Do they ever fade?" he finally asked.

Mary considered this. "Yes and no," she said slowly. "The intensity never seems to lessen...but I just keep making new memories, and the good ones eventually crowd out the bad, so that they intrude less often." She lifted her head and gave him a smile tinged with sadness. "Thank you for giving me so many good ones."

His answering smile matched her own and they kissed softly before she settled down against him once more.

After a short while of resting peacefully together, Mary pushed herself up, reaching down for the blankets around their feet. She tugged them up until they were above her shoulders and covering up Matthew's bandage, and then she burrowed comfortably into the warmth of his embrace and smiled when she heard him sigh.

"Thank you for being here with me," he said.

"Of course," she answered. "There is nowhere else I would rather be." She paused and then smiled again. "'Love is not love that—'"

"'—alters when it alteration finds'," they recited together.

After a brief pause, Mary quirked her lips. "Perhaps I find you altered, but I love you even more now than I did before."

Matthew chuckled and gave her a brief squeeze. "So aptly put. Sweet dreams, darling."

Mary lifted her head and looked at him seriously. "You, too. If you need to wake me in the night—for any reason—please do not hesitate. You do not have to face this alone, not tonight."

Matthew regarded her seriously, his eyes glistening, and then he blinked and his expression changed to one of mischief as he cupped her breast with his free hand. "For  _any_  reason?"

She smirked at him, enjoying the soft rub of his thumb against the side of her breast. She leaned in and kissed him, and when they broke apart, he reached up and put out the light.

"Good night," she murmured as they settled together.

"It will be," he answered in a determined tone, and their eyes drifted closed.

* * *

There was an easy companionship between them the next day, but they did not speak of what had happened, and Matthew seemed less amorous than she had hoped. There was no stealing away midday; when he came to the hospital before lunch, he merely kissed her cheek and then went away again to walk with her father. She arrived home in the late afternoon and found Matthew asleep in their bed. Napping wasn't his usual habit, she thought, but perhaps he needed time to heal from whatever injuries he had, both visible and invisible.

She felt a growing urgency, however, as they readied themselves for bed that night. She had no reason to believe this night would be different from any other, but she wanted to try to make it so. Her desire to carry his child, to give him this gift, to give him a legacy and one day be able to tell a son or daughter how wonderful a man their father was— _is—_ burned in her chest.

But even more than that, she missed him terribly and she wanted to love him and to feel that he loved her, with all the raw, uncivilised passion of their coupling.

So when he reached for the book on his bedside table, she rose up on her knees, pushed the book aside, smiled at his confused expression, and kissed him. She'd been afraid that he'd gone off her and he wouldn't welcome her advances, but his groan and responding movements quickly drove out that notion. She made a satisfied sound and undid the buttons of his pyjama shirt as she continued to kiss him.

When her hands began to roam over his torso, massage his chest, and tease at his nipples, he broke away with a gasp.

"I'm afraid..." he whispered.

"Of what?" she asked, and moved to kiss along his jaw, undeterred and hungry for him.

"Of—" he gasped again as she took his earlobe between her lips and sucked gently on it, "—of it happening again."

"The bad memories?" she murmured. The hollow of his clavicle was so soft and warm and, she knew, sensitive. He writhed under the sweep of her tongue and she loved every moment of it. By this point, his hands would normally have come around her body in some fashion, but he still seemed reluctant.

"Yes," he breathed. "I—"

But whatever he had been about to say was cut off when she cupped him and stroked her palm and fingers over the familiar, satisfying curves that she found. Her fingers stroked underneath him and he straightened slightly with a renewed gasp, then moaned when she switched to using her fingernails.

"Mary..."

Her name was a moaned prayer on his lips and she smiled, warmed, swelled, softened, ached for him.

She pulled her hand away and when his eyes opened, they were clear with confusion and desire.  _Why did you stop?_  they asked her, even as he opened his mouth to speak again in protest.

She pressed a finger to her lips in a gesture that commanded quiet, and then she climbed off the bed and held out her hands.

"Come here," she said.

He seemed to be warring with himself, but he obeyed, slowly swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. She moved the shirt off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms until he shook it off. She loosened the ties of his trousers and slipped her hands inside the waistband to slide the garment down over his hips. He watched her with a kind of awe, complying with her unspoken commands, and she led him to stand with his back against the wall. He still wasn't aroused yet, although she hoped his body would respond if she was patient and skilful, even despite his qualms.

So she set herself the task of coaxing him to relax, enjoy himself, and not worry about a recurrence of unwanted memories. She recalled how patient he'd been with her on the morning after their wedding, and how creative, and she did her utmost to make what she was doing now different from the last time they'd made love. She suspected that their position then had triggered his memories and she avoided it now.

She'd never backed him against a wall and knelt in front of him like this before, but she very much enjoyed the position. She licked him slowly and heard his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, so she grew more confident. As she stroked and teased and played with her tongue and her fingers, his groans and the hardening of his body made it clear that her approach was working. He moaned and sagged slightly and then adjusted his footing. She smiled with satisfaction as she continued. Why had she never tried this before? It was delightful!

And then, finally: yes. While his head was still thrown back and his eyes were still closed, he put his hands on the back of her head and pulled her towards himself, holding her fixed while he thrust, first with a brief force and then more gently. She fought a sudden urge to gag and found a way to move him inside her mouth that made her more comfortable, but he had felt the unusual flurry of movement from her and he immediately released her with a noise of apology.

She grinned and licked her lips, shaking her head. She knew he had enjoyed it and she wanted to give him more pleasure.

"Again," she commanded, and she drew him into her mouth once more, lifting his hands and putting them behind her head.

"Are you—oh—sure?" And he thrust a little jerkily into her.

Her answer was simply to stroke him firmly with her tongue and then suck on his tip, and he thrust again with a moan.

A minute more and he was hard. He tried to encourage her to pull away but she invented a new swirl of her tongue and he hissed in pleasure, then gave a short breath of a laugh.

"Mercy," he gasped.

She rose smoothly to her feet, still feeling very much in control and enjoying it, and she tugged him towards the bed.

Propping up their pillows together against the headboard, she gestured towards the pile and asked, "Would you sit?"

He gave a small frown of interest but complied. She followed him, straddled him, and settled down slowly, watching with pleasure as his eyes closed and his mouth fell open.

As she moved, she asked, "Is this anything like what happened before?"

"No." He shook his head, his eyes still closed, and his hands caressed her hips. "Nothing at all." A slow smile spread across his face.

"Good," she said. He filled her so deeply and she wanted to increase the speed of her movements, to follow the hunger of her body to its satisfying conclusion, but instead she watched his face, gauging the readiness of his body, and stroked him as purposefully as she could with her own. Drawing up and away from him with each stroke was its own small torture, but watching the pleasure on his face more than compensated for each temporary loss.

After a short while, he opened his eyes and looked up at her with a beautiful smile. His eyes were a little damp and were reflecting the lamp more brightly.

"God, I love you!" he sighed, when she paused to rest and savour just being joined to him. It had been  _so long_.

Her only answer was to smile and lean more of herself against him, so that her nipples brushed his collarbones, because she knew he liked the sensation.

Her nipples tightened at the light stroke, growing more sensitive, and the heat and pressure of his body inside hers was  _such_  a welcome pleasure!

She had expected that approaching lovemaking with her focus primarily on his pleasure would necessitate settling for less of her own, but instead she felt alive and quite intensely connected to him. She never wanted him to leave her again, but it was not her choice, or his. She tightened around him, holding him close in the most intimate way she could, feeling powerful as he groaned and squeezed his eyes closed in pleasure, his hands flexing hard on her hips.

Her eyes fell closed and she moaned as she moved again, enjoying the smooth slickness of their motions and the way his answering thrusts caused a mounting pleasure deep within her. She  _knew_  this sensation; she knew what it meant, how to take advantage of it and how to come apart in his arms. She began rocking forward on her hips and rolling her sensitive nub against him.

She felt his lips press between her breasts and she remembered that she was supposed to be focusing on  _his_  pleasure, not on her own. She reluctantly slowed and opened her eyes, fighting the urge to move again.

He was looking up at her with that expression of awe and it humbled her.

"Go ahead," he murmured, his hands warm on her lower back. "I want to watch you."

She blinked and paused. "But this is for you."

His smile widened. "I know. And what I want is to watch you as you peak. I want to feel you. I want to remember this moment forever."

She bent to take his face in her hands and she kissed him. "Oh, Matthew..."

"Go," he said. "Surrender to it. And know that I will enjoy watching every moment."

She was  _so ready_  and she clenched around him at his words, loving him fiercely. He matched her with a strong thrust and so their dance began, as she closed her eyes and steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders and arched her back slightly to achieve just the  _right_  angle with her hips.

As she moved, his hands ran down her forearms and then he lifted her hands away from his shoulders and placed them over her breasts.

"This, too," he murmured, and she opened her eyes in surprise. "I want to watch you pleasure yourself."

She felt a brief moment of self-consciousness: he'd never watched her do this before. But he wanted to watch her now and she would give him anything, everything he asked for, all that she had to give.

She stroked her nipples and it sent a bolt of arousal through her, surprising her. Matthew hummed his pleasure and thrust up in response, and her head fell back as she rocked with him, their dance taking on a new intensity.

"Yes..." he whispered, and his hands roamed lightly over her back, raising pleasurable gooseflesh and making her squeeze him hard. "Yes!"

Between his sounds and his strength and her own secret pleasures exposed to his view, she began to peak. It started slowly and then exploded outward in a rush that enveloped her.

"Ohhh...yes!" She gave a low moan and rocked, drawing it out, her body shaking. Her hands had fallen away from her breasts again to steady herself against him, and she felt his lips close around a nipple, sending a renewed shock of pleasure through her, even as she was pulsing. She cried out in surprise, but her answering involuntary squeeze told him to continue, so he made a low sound of approval and continued suckling until she found the intensity unbearable and she pushed at his shoulders.

Her eyes still closed, she sank forward and embraced him, her heart pounding and her body trembling.

"That was  _beautiful_ ," he murmured, holding her against him.

"Really?" she whispered.

"Really." He stroked her back. "We'll have to do that again sometime."

She laughed. He was coming back to her. This wasn't their last time together. He was coming back.

When she finally pulled away with a sigh and a smile, she looked at his beloved face and ran her fingers along his temple, admiring the lines of his features.

"Do you want to finish now? Or would you like something else?" she asked.

"Finish," he replied. "Would you just lie back where you are now?"

She nodded, pleased that he felt well enough to do this. She disengaged from him and then stretched out on her back in front of him as he smoothly rose up on his knees and followed her. When he entered her again, they both groaned with pleasure. She regained her senses and opened her eyes, wanting to watch  _him_  this time, and she was not disappointed. As he started to increase the speed and strength of his thrusts, and even as she tightened around him and arched up to meet him each time, she kept her head. She had begun this to give him pleasure and she would finish what she had started. She did something then that she had never done before: she resisted focusing on her own second rise and she reached up to pluck at his nipples.

He jerked in surprise and gave a sharp moan, then dropped his head with a gasped, " _Yes!_ " and pushed, hard. Each thrust rocked her body with its strength and she finally gave into the pleasure of it, enjoying this second time nearly as much as the first. He continued until he was spent and with a final convulsive push deep inside her, he finished. He fell heavily, half-caught himself, rose up just barely enough for her to draw in a full breath, and then he collapsed with soft groan and lay breathing hard against her cheek.

When his breathing had quieted again, he shifted slightly.

"Thank you," he sighed against her skin.

"Oh, my love," she whispered. "You're welcome. Thank  _you_."

It was more than she had hoped for and all that she wanted, and she closed her eyes and held him and knew he would return.

* * *

**June 1918**

Mary straightened her skirt, gathered up her handbag, and walked down the short hall between the examination room and Dr Ryder's office. He was writing and he glanced up with a brief, friendly smile as she settled herself in a chair in front of his desk. She noted the insignia on his uniform. He had the same rank markings that Matthew did; he must be a Captain, too.

Dr Ryder finished his notes and set down his pen.

"Thank you, again, for seeing me on such short notice," Mary said.

"You're welcome, again," he answered, smiling. "I'm happy to help. To be honest, I'd much rather be practising gynaecology than—" his smile fell away, "—much of the work that I find myself doing for the war effort."

"I understand only too well. I'm the office manager at Downton's cottage hospital."

"Of course," he said. "Well, in that case, I'll speak more frankly than I might otherwise, if you don't mind, Lady Mary."

"Please," she agreed with a nod. Outwardly, she was poised; inwardly, her chest tightened. "Did you find something?"

He nodded. "There is scar tissue throughout the lining of your uterus. There's a great deal of it in the area around the entrance to the Fallopian tubes and they're nearly sealed off, making it impossible for your ova to be fertilised."

Mary frowned. "Scar tissue? But how might I have...? I've never been hurt...there."

"Certain infections are transmitted via sexual contact. No physical violence is necessary."

"Oh." Mary blinked and looked down at the desk. "Is there no other explanation?"

"None that are as likely," Dr Ryder answered. "It is unfortunately a rather common condition amongst the wives of soldiers."

Mary looked up at that. "Why?"

Dr Ryder shifted uncomfortably. "Venereal disease has become...rampant...among them."

Mary stiffened. Although it was rarely spoken of, a number of the men who had come through Downton's hospital had been treated for such things. She was responsible for stocking the supplies that were used in the treatments, and Isobel had expressed her displeasure with the state of things.

But Matthew would never engage in such behaviour, Mary was certain of it. He'd come to their wedding night with no prior experience and she knew well enough his views on fidelity.

"My husband does not have a venereal disease."

Dr Ryder narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, my lady, but that's the most likely explanation."

Mary blinked. She could allow Dr Ryder to make this assumption about Matthew and preserve her own appearance of virtue, but how much did the doctor need to know to help her? Could she afford to withhold anything, even something so personal?

She met Dr Ryder's gaze without flinching. "No, it is not." She swallowed. "There was someone...before my husband."

Dr Ryder's eyebrows rose and he nodded slowly. "I see. And when did this encounter take place?"

Mary considered it a moment. "About five years ago."

He nodded again. "That would be consistent with the apparent age of the scarring," he mused. He looked at her. "Do you recall experiencing any discomfort afterwards? Any tenderness in the abdomen, or a high fever?" Mary was shaking her head as he spoke. "Any unusual discharge?"

She frowned and put up a hand. "There was a slight...discharge, but I didn't think anything of it. I just supposed it to be the natural result of what had taken place."

"It shouldn't be, no." Dr Ryder began making a note in her file.

Now that she thought about it, she'd never experienced such symptoms after any of her encounters with Matthew. She tilted her head, curious.

"A man can give a woman an infection?" she asked.

"If he is carrying one," the doctor answered absently, still writing.

"How could he have contracted it?" Mary asked.

"From another woman, most likely. Or another man."

Mary blinked. "Another man?"

Dr Ryder glanced up. "Such things are far more common than one might think." After looking at her a moment, he returned to writing.

Strange thoughts about Kemal tumbled in her head, questions of who had brought him to her room, who had been his valet—it had been Thomas, hadn't it? He'd been the one to bring Kemal's breakfast tray and to discover him the next morning...

Mary frowned. Thomas's tendencies were known; she wasn't sure how she knew about them, but the household just seemed to take his bachelorhood for granted. There was never talk of him showing interest in any of the maids or any of the girls in the village.

But that was neither here nor there. She had, of course, been just another of Kemal's conquests; she had had no illusions that he was any more in love with her than she had been with him. What she  _hadn't_  expected was to find that in allowing him in, she had not merely violated some abstract moral constraint, but she might have actually endangered her own health, prevented the conception of children, and—

She froze.

—and passed on a venereal disease to Matthew. Could she have damaged his ability to have children, too? Matthew was innocent in all of this! Her heart sank under the weight of her fear and guilt.

Dr Ryder was capping his pen and he set it down.

"I don't know what this earlier partner might have told you," he said, "but his encounter with you was most likely not his first."

Mary nodded, but she had no interest in discussing Kemal Pamuk any further. She frowned and trembled slightly. "Could I have transferred this infection to my husband?"

"When did you first engage in sexual intercourse with him?"

Mary looked into the middle distance and struggled to match the doctor's matter-of-fact manner. She lifted her chin. "After we were married, in August 1914."

Dr Ryder nodded. "Then no, I doubt you could have infected him. Did he complain of any discomfort, such as difficulty urinating, or was there any redness, or swelling, or pain during intercourse?"

Mary fought the urge to fidget uncomfortably in the face of such frankness. "No, but he left for his officer's training only a week after our marriage."

Dr Ryder shook his head. "I still think it unlikely." He interlaced his fingers. "Whatever infection caused the scarring on your organs had probably run its course by then and was defeated by your body's defences." He gave her a close look. "All of this is assuming, of course, that there have been no other extramarital partners."

She shook her head.

"So—" he began, then sat back as he took in her appearance with a slight grimace. "I'm sorry. I forgot that this is not a normal office visit. I should have had you remain in the exam room in the gown while we spoke. Normally, I'd ask you to schedule a follow-up, but as I'm only in town for a few days and I'd like to spend the rest of them with my family..."

"Of course," she said, sitting forward. "Does this mean you think the situation can be...addressed?"

"Oh yes," he answered. "Very easily! It will require only a minor operation." He glanced at his wristwatch. "We can probably be done by half-past, if you'd like to get started now. I must warn you, however: there will be some bleeding, so I encourage you to avoid travelling for the next few days. Also, it will be necessary for you to abstain from all forms of sexual activity for the next six weeks, so be sure that this will not coincide with your husband's next leave."

"It won't," Mary replied. "His last was in March."

"Excellent," Dr Ryder, making as if to push himself up. "Shall we?"

Mary swallowed and nodded, then rose along with him, holding her handbag tightly with both hands. She followed the doctor out of the office and back down the short hallway, trying not to let her hopes rise too much.  _Nothing might come of this,_ she reminded herself.

_Or everything might!_

She fought down her nervousness as she went back into the examination room. She was doing this for herself, and for Matthew...and for their children.

_Dear Lord, please!_


	24. Chapter 24

_24_

**August 1918**

William finished securing Captain Crawley's gas mask in its bag and pressed the studs closed. He adjusted the bag until it was hanging straight, tugged at the Sam Browne strap to make it sit properly, and then stood back. Captain Crawley was staring past William's shoulder, his wide-eyed gaze distant and unfocused, his face pale.

Zero was in ten minutes. Their objective: capture the far ridge, which meant capturing the German trench opposite and overrunning the artillery a few hundred yards beyond. It would not be ground easily gained. The advance relied on the British field batteries laying waste to the German howitzers before the infantry was in range of them, but previous use of this tactic had been spotty at best. Everything depended on precise timing. Too early, and the German machine gunners—not to mention the British barrage of covering fire—would mow everyone down. Too late, and the creeping barrage would not protect them from the remaining guns. They had a narrow window of relative safety and they had to run like hell or be caught out.

"Am I ready?" Captain Crawley asked.

William's eyes flickered up and then he looked back down. "Only you can answer that, sir."

"They're going to chuck everything they've got at us."

William lifted his chin at the slight quaver in Captain Crawley's voice and he gave him a grim smile. "Then we shall have to chuck it back, won't we, sir?"

Brave words, but this was most likely their last few minutes alive and whole.

"Quite right."

Nodding in response, William slung his rifle over his shoulder as they moved apart, and they went out into the trench. Everyone was ready and waiting, scarcely looking at or speaking to one another. There were small gestures: last stubs of fags, held with trembling fingers; a last letter from home, reread a final time; a forehead leaned against a parapet, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent prayer.

William turned away to look back across the British-held territory behind the trench, taking in the forlorn and tortured landscape all the way to the horizon. So many had lost their lives in gaining this ground, but it didn't seem a prize worth winning. Dreary and derelict, heaps of shot-torn, rusty, corrugated bits of metal marked the dumps of abandoned positions. These piles of rubble had once housed farms and families; now they stood as monuments to a desolation of destroyed lives.

And now it was their turn, his turn, to defend this position and press still further forward. He knew the view beyond the German line was no greener, but he was not seeking his own Promised Land. That dream lay far away, back home at Downton, in the face of a pretty little kitchen maid with big grey eyes and a smile that could light him up from a thousand yards away. He would fight to protect  _her_.

* * *

Major Clarkson crossed to the small sink and began washing his hands as Mary sat up and smoothed the sheets over her legs. When he turned around, drying his hands on a towel, he was grinning widely. He so rarely seemed happy these days that the sight struck Mary and she gave him a tentative smile.

"I'm happy to report, Lady Mary, that you are entirely healed. To be honest, I'm surprised by how clear the entrances looked, given Captain Ryder's notes. He did his work well."

Her heart leapt. "Truly?"

"Yes," he answered, then exhaled, still glowing a bit. "I must say, it is rather a nice change to be able to deliver such hopeful news!"

Mary smiled down at her hands.

"When is Captain Crawley next expected home?"

"September at the earliest." Mary's heart swirled with possibilities.

Clarkson hung the towel back on its hook and made to leave. "Well, Captain Ryder instructed me to tell you that once your husband is home to stay, 'probability and logic indicate a Crawley baby yowling in its crib before too long'."

Mary pressed her lips together and clasped her hands happily in her lap, gathering herself before she managed to speak. "That is wonderful news!"

"His secretary will get in touch with you when he knows the dates of his next leave," Clarkson added. "He would like to see you then to confirm that everything is going well." Clarkson's grin seemed a permanent fixture. He tugged the privacy curtain between her and the door and nodded to her. "Lady Mary."

She nodded back and he left the room.

* * *

The murmured exchanges between Captain Crawley and some of his men had tapered into silence, until the only sound in the trench was the tiny  _tick tick tick_  of his pocket-watch. William drew in a breath and straightened, the seconds seeming to stretch on forever. He kept trying to swallow and his stomach cramped.

"Right, Sergeant," Captain Crawley muttered.

"Fix bayonets!" Sergeant Lee bellowed and William quickly reached up to obey, surrounded by a chorus of metal clicking and snapping into place. Everyone turned to face the German line.

One heartbeat, two, then three—

The whistle shrieked and William roared with everyone else and pressed forward, close on the Captain's heels as they threw themselves over the top, surrounded by the rest of their platoon, shouting and charging forward.

In a terrific thunderclap, the field batteries behind them opened up and a screaming tornado of shells flew overhead, bombarding the German line, although a few fell short and men dropped, screaming, from the sprays of shrapnel. William hunched down and kept running, his eyes fixed on Captain Crawley's back. He must stay with him, defend him, protect him.

There was a crater before them, and William broke to the left and ran around it. Explosions came from all sides as the German howitzers answered the British artillery and William was momentarily disoriented, panic rising in him. He mustn't lose direction—!

"FORWARD!" bellowed the Captain, to William's right, and William darted in that direction, narrowly missing a tangle of barbed wire. The air filled with black dirt and the ground shook; men fell to either side; William pressed on, squinting as he ran, his chest burning. He saw a massive crater ahead and threw himself down into the hole to catch his breath. A second later, Captain Crawley landed in the dirt beside him, his revolver held up.

"I won't be sorry when this one's over!" William shouted.

The Captain immediately started to scramble up out of the crater and William hurled himself up beside him—

There was an awful screaming whistle—

William looked up—

"Sir!" he yelled, throwing himself into Captain Crawley.

A wall of force slammed into William as he fell and everything went black.

* * *

When Mary entered Major Clarkson's office, Mrs Bird was just leaving. The cook's eyes widened at the sight of Mary and her face lit up.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Bird," Mary said, amused by all the unusual smiles today. "How many men showed up for lunch today?"

"Oh, the usual lot," Mrs Bird replied, "with a few more tagging along, as usual. They're coming from farther away. Word's gotten out."

"That's what Her Ladyship has told me," Mary answered. "I must say, she's quite impressed with your cooking and the efficiency of your serving line. If Mrs Patmore weren't such a good general—" At this, Mrs Bird chuckled. "—I think Her Ladyship might be tempted to poach you from Mrs Crawley."

Mrs Bird looked pleased, but she straightened. "I couldn't leave Mrs Crawley," she said. "She's been so good to me for so many years."

Mary nodded and made to move past her, but Mrs Bird paused, her eyes softening. "May I just say, my lady, that you are looking very well!"

Mary smiled. "Thank you, Mrs Bird. I hope you have a good afternoon."

"Oh, I will," the cook replied. "Mrs Crawley gave me the rest of the day off, as Lady Grantham has invited you all to dinner at the big house this evening."

"You weren't supposed to tell her," Sybil called, half-laughing, from across the room, and Mrs Bird's eyes widened as she clapped a hand over her mouth and stepped aside for Mary.

"Why ever not?" Mary asked as she crossed the room. "Dinner at Downton Abbey is hardly worth keeping a secret."

Sybil glanced at Isobel, Sister Brodrick, and Major Clarkson, all of whom stood around his desk, seeming unusually jolly, and holding teacups and saucers and nibbling Mrs Bird's excellent chocolate biscuits.

"Well..." Isobel began, "I suppose, as you already know that something's afoot..."

"Oh, do get on with it," Mary said, pouring herself a cup of tea. She picked up the cup and saucer and took a sip, giving an internal sigh of pleasure. It had been a rather long, trying day at the hospital. Stopping for tea was such a welcome relief. Perhaps that was why everyone was so jolly; tea-time, when they all managed to be in Clarkson's office together, was a pleasant reprieve from all the suffering outside its door.

"We were planning a small party in honour of yours and Matthew's fourth anniversary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Mary paused, her teacup halfway to her lips, and frowned. It was true; their wedding anniversary was today, but aside from offering a small prayer when she'd woken this morning and smiling at a few choice memories of Matthew, she'd thought the day would pass, celebrated only as a private joy. No one had thrown a party for them in previous years, after all, and they'd never been able to celebrate it together since their wedding day.

"What's this?" Mary asked, setting her cup down on its saucer. "Matthew's not due home yet. It would be odd to celebrate it without him here."

Sybil and Isobel exchanged bright glances.

Mary's eyes narrowed. "What are you two planning?"

They  _giggled_. Even Sister Brodrick was smiling, which made Mary blink in surprise.

"Oh, it's not us who planned it," Sybil answered. "It's Matthew."

Mary's eyes widened and she froze, her heart thudding in her chest. After the news Clarkson had just given her—!

It would be just like Matthew to come home and surprise her on such a special occasion!

"Is he," she fought to keep a smile off her face, "is he coming home tonight?"

Everyone faces fell just a little, and her heart dropped.

"No," Sybil said gently, "but he didn't want you to have the day go unnoticed  _again_ , so he sent Papa a letter that he's to read aloud to you tonight at dinner, and there's a  _gift!_ " Sybil squealed this last and Mary rolled her eyes.

"Really, Sybil," she said dryly. "That is hardly reason to lose your composure."

Sybil heaved a theatrical sigh, then stood primly in obvious imitation of Mary's stiff posture. Isobel chuckled and Mary shot her a look.

"Happy fourth anniversary, my lady," Sister Brodrick said, the picture of calm amusement.

"Thank you," Mary replied, and took a sip of her tea. Isobel met her glance and raised her eyebrows in question. Mary gave her a small nod as she set down the teacup. Isobel looked away quickly, her eyes suddenly damp as she blinked. When she picked up her own teacup, her hand shook slightly, causing the china to clatter as she lifted it from the saucer. She hid a trembling smile with a sip of tea. Mary closed her eyes, her heart full of hope.  _Thank You_ , she thought.

_**BOOM** _

Mary felt the explosion deep in her bones as the ground shook. Her teacup and saucer slipped from her nerveless fingers and she heard the sound of their shattering as if from far away, for her face stung from a thousand hot, tiny abrasions and her lungs ached as she struggled to breathe in grimy air. She could see nothing and she was falling—there was a heavy weight on her chest and then sharp pain blossomed in her lower back, hot and searing, and she cried out—

She flung her eyes open and gasped, shaking, squinting as pain rushed in at the brightness of the room.

The room. She was in Major Clarkson's office.

She looked around in confusion; everything was intact. There was no dust in the air, no explosions, no quaking under her feet. Everything looked perfectly normal again, except that everyone was crowded around her, holding on to her elbows, her arms, her waist. She frowned in confusion.

"Lady Mary?" Clarkson asked.

"What...happened?"

"Perhaps you should sit a moment, my lady," Clarkson said, and Mary found herself being ushered into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"I'm fine," she answered, realising that the pain behind her eyes and on her skin and in her back had entirely gone. "I'm fine." She waved everyone away and they stepped back, regarding her with worried expressions. She frowned. "What  _was_  that?"

"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Clarkson was looking at Isobel and Sybil.

"No," Isobel said. "Not that I've seen."

Sybil gasped. "Edith!"

Mary frowned, then—

_Matthew!_

"No!" she cried out, her voice breaking, and she covered her mouth with her hands. She  _knew_. Oh, she knew it deep in her bones! He'd been terribly hurt—

 _It had all gone black_.

She reached up, grasping wildly from something to hold on to, and found the edge of Clarkson's desk.

"No!" she gasped. "Matthew...!"

_Not now! Not when they were so close! She'd never even told him that she'd been to see Captain Ryder!_

She'd been planning to tell Matthew in person, to share the happy news after Clarkson had confirmed it.

Mary heard quiet murmuring and the shuffling of footsteps, but she didn't care who was moving about. There was only a raging, gaping, awful cavern in her chest right now and it hurt to breathe.

_Matthew..._

Eventually, she realised that silence had fallen around her and she sniffed and lifted her head, taking out her kerchief. She wiped at her eyes and drew in a slow breath, then let it out.

Someone exhaled shakily beside her and she looked up in surprise. It was Isobel in the chair opposite, watching her, a frozen expression of pain and uncertainty in her features. Sybil stood on Mary's other side, and she put a hand on Mary's shoulder.

"Mary, my dear...?" Isobel began.

Mary sniffed and finished wiping her face, then pressed the damp kerchief into her lap.

"What happened?" Sybil asked.

Mary shook her head, looking away. Whatever it had been, it was no longer. Perhaps it meant nothing. She looked back at Isobel. "I don't know."

Something passed between Isobel and Sybil, and Mary frowned down at the crumpled kerchief. Edith had claimed to experience something like this, right before she received word that Anthony would return home to stay.

Mary gathered herself and straightened. Perhaps that was what she should focus on: Matthew would be coming home sooner than expected. And not because he was being interred.

She closed her eyes, fighting back  _that_  rush of images, and drew in a deep breath. Swallowing, she licked her lips, and with a monumental effort—amidst Isobel and Sybil making surprised, cautioning noises—she stood. She knew only one thing with a deep certainty, and she would choose to take comfort in it, despite the cold fear that crept around her heart.

"Matthew is coming home," she said, and after giving Sybil and Isobel a final look, Mary stepped around the broken china and left the room. She needed to walk alone a while, to think and prepare.

And perhaps she ought to visit Edith. Edith would understand.

Mary tried to smile, to think of hopeful things, to ignore the creeping cold feeling and the fresh urge to burst into tears. She would know the outcome soon enough; spending more time crying over it now seemed pointless. Their long trial of separation was finally nearing its end.

 _Matthew was coming home_.

* * *

**Two days later**

Sybil walked down to the garage and found Branson idly polishing the car with a rag.

"Can you drive me to the hospital?" she asked.

He looked up, stepping away from the car. "Aren't you needed here?"

Sybil shook her head. "I want to be with Mary when Captain Crawley arrives. They can manage without me here for a while." She didn't bother waiting for Branson to come round and open the door, but pulled it open herself.

"How is she holding up?"

Sybil paused, her foot on the step, and gave Branson a careful look. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why?" He glanced down, then met her eyes again. "Because I'm the chauffeur?"

"No," Sybil snapped. "Because she's my sister."

Branson nodded, his eyes growing cold. "You're good at hiding your feelings, aren't you?" He tossed the rag into the driver's compartment and picked up his uniform jacket, which had been draped over the door. "All of you." He finished shrugging on his jacket, the smug smile on his face tinged with bitterness. "Much better than we are."

She sighed. What did he expect of her? That she would not only madly pledge her heart to him, but that she would expose her whole family to his critique as well? She hated the way he kept reminding her of the distance between them. She had wanted to regard him as a friend, but he was making it increasingly difficult to do so.

There was no point arguing with him. She had work to do; Mary would soon need her.

"Perhaps," Sybil answered with a frown. "But we  _do_  have feelings, and don't make the mistake of thinking we don't."

She climbed up into the passenger cabin and pulled the door closed, looking away with unseeing eyes as she worried about Matthew and William both.

* * *

Isobel's heart gave a stutter as she saw the orderlies carrying Matthew into the hospital ward.  _How like Reginald he looked!_  Pale, unconscious, and thin; these were her last memories of her beloved husband, and she saw them now in the face of her son.

Every fibre of Isobel's being wanted to rush to her son's side, ignoring all the other new wounded soldiers, but Sister Brodrick was managing the other wards and it was up to Isobel and Major Clarkson to direct the Medical Corpsmen towards the appropriate beds in this one.

After a quick glance assured her that Matthew seemed to have all his limbs intact—a fact that lifted her heart immensely—Isobel forced herself to focus on directing traffic, taking one side of the room while Clarkson took the other. From time to time, she glanced over, slightly reassured when she saw Matthew in Sybil's and Mary's capable hands. He remained unconscious as Sybil instructed Mary in how to bathe his wounds, and then Sybil was on to the next soldier and Mary was left alone.

The last of the new arrivals were laid in their beds, some calling for water, some groaning from the jostling they'd been through, and Isobel was drawn again and again to bedsides other than her son's. She must be professional; she must focus. And yet a part of her was continually conscious of the silent tableau playing out in the far corner of the room, in the bright daylight pouring in from the window.

Mary had put an apron on over her plain blue gingham dress and now sat on the bed beside the unmoving Matthew. A basin of pinkish water stood on the bedside table, and she was methodically and patiently pulling tiny pieces of shrapnel and debris from his wounds, before gently wiping them with a clean bit of wetted cloth and then painting each with iodine. Isobel was glad that Matthew was still unconscious and likely drugged with morphine; to have so many wounds treated with the burning antiseptic would have had him writhing in pain if he were awake.

Isobel's eyes drifted up to Mary's face again. The young woman was nearly as pale as her husband, but her mouth was set in a determined line and she betrayed no disgust with her task. Her movements were careful and patient, thorough, unflinching. Isobel was caught a moment, watching this once-haughty young woman, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, now looking after Isobel's own boy, the middle-class son of a middle-class doctor, with painstaking tenderness. The strange humility of the scene struck Isobel, and Mary seemed so beautiful in the sunlight. Isobel could not imagine a more worthy wife for her son and she loved them both so dearly in that moment. Mary was well, fully recovered from her operation! Matthew would be so delighted when he awoke!

Watching Mary's actions, Isobel gave a satisfied nod. Sybil had instructed her sister well. Despite the large number of wounds on his face, neck, arms, and torso—indicating close proximity to a shell blast—they all seemed superficial. If he weren't unconscious, Isobel doubted that he would have been sent home at all. She uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the apparent mildness of his wounds, compared to most of the other men in the room.

But then, Matthew  _was_ unconscious, and that was a worrying sign. She hoped it was just the morphine.

"Mrs Crawley," Major Clarkson called. "Mrs Crawley!"

Isobel turned and looked up, rousing herself, and she gave Clarkson a curt nod as she hurried to his side.

* * *

Mary had done all she could with Matthew's upper body, but it was clear from the reddish-brown marks—one large, the rest small—that dotted his faded, blue-striped Medical Corps pyjama trousers that there were further wounds on his legs. She needed assistance to continue. In addition, she wanted to move privacy screens into place before she exposed him in that fashion, but the ward's set of screens were already in use across the room, where Major Clarkson had begun his examinations.

Mary sat back with a sigh, rolling her shoulders and straightening her spine, fighting the discomfort from having been bent over Matthew for so long. With a final look at his face, she stood up, gathered the soiled cloths and the basin, and carried them across the ward as she went in search of fresh supplies and an unused set of privacy screens from another ward.

She was soon carrying first one screen and then another back across the room, with Sister Brodrick's blessing. Isobel caught sight of Mary's project and went off to help bring the final screen over to Matthew's bed, setting it up so that he was fully shielded from outside eyes.

When Mary turned around, she saw Isobel bent over the bed, gently running her fingers through her son's greasy hair, which was so matted with dirt that none of his usual blond colour was visible. Mary swallowed at the sight of the slight trembling in Isobel's hand. Mary was accustomed to seeing her mother-in-law, even in the face of horrific wounds, moving from one task to another with a kind of cheerful, dogged efficiency, but the woman who stood before her now was not Isobel the nurse, but Isobel the mother.

"How is he?" Isobel asked, straightening.

"He hasn't awoken," Mary answered. "I've tried calling his name several times."

Isobel nodded. "No responses, no twitching while you've tended to his wounds?"

"Not the least movement." Mary looked at Isobel's face. "What does it mean?"

Isobel pressed her lips together and shrugged. "It may just be the morphine. Although I wonder why they gave him such a high dose..."

"I'm not sure they did," Mary said. "The orderly told us that Matthew had been unconscious for as long as they'd had him."

Isobel frowned as she looked to either side of the bed. "Did he have a tag?"

"Oh, yes." Mary picked up the rumpled, discarded pyjama shirt and searched through it until she found the tag, and she held it out, reading it. "'Probable spinal damage'. What does it mean?"

Isobel frowned and bent down, sliding her arm under Matthew's shoulders. "Would you get his legs?"

Mary moved to help and they carefully rolled him on to his side. Isobel drew back with a gasp.

"What is it?" Mary asked, quickly coming around to see. She gasped and covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. There was a horrible, roughly triangular, wide wound on his lower spine. It had dark red edges, the skin broken and bruised so deeply that it was mostly black, and buried in it were several long, wicked-looking splinters.

Although the rest of his back was largely free of cuts or bruises, there were several smaller, similar-looking wounds clustered around that largest one, each of which needed to be cleaned. Mary hurried to gather up the fresh basin of water and the cloths that she'd left on the bedside table, and she knelt beside the bed to better see the wound.

"Be careful," Isobel said, putting out a hand before Mary could touch the first splinter. "Please, let me."

Mary immediately moved out of the way and Isobel lowered herself to her knees with a soft groan.

"What do you think happened to him?" Mary asked, when Isobel had finished extracting the largest splinters and she gestured for wetted cloths, but Isobel only shook her head and returned to her painstaking task. Mary frowned and watched, realising only after she began to feel a little lightheaded that she was holding her breath each time Isobel carefully worked another splinter out of his flesh.

When they finished cleaning and painting the wounds with iodine, Isobel helped Mary to put Matthew into a clean pyjama shirt, and when they finished, they rolled him on to his back again. They paused a moment before beginning the work of removing his trousers, looking down at his quiet, unmoving face. His darkened hair hung back in dirty clumps and he had small, orange-tinged abrasions on his jaw, cheeks, ear, and chin, and his closed eyes were bruised and discoloured.

His head had lolled to the side during their ministrations, so Mary took it gently in her hands and lifted it, surprised by how heavy it was—had she ever lifted his head before?—until she had settled him on the pillow, his neck straight once again.

How she wished he would awaken and speak to them!

"We must be very careful." Isobel said quietly. "We must jar his spine as little as possible."

Mary nodded and they began the task of removing his trousers. In the end, there was nothing for it but to cut them off, and the two women peeled back the cloth carefully to inspect the large wound on his upper thigh.

Isobel shook her head and gestured. "An inch farther that way and this could have been fatal." Mary's head lifted in surprise. Isobel swallowed and met her eyes as she explained. "He could have bled out before they'd carried him off the battlefield."

"Then let us be grateful that he did not."

Isobel nodded and bent to begin disinfecting the wound. It would need to be sutured closed, Mary thought, but at least it was a smooth-edged cut. Mary draped a towel over Matthew's hips and then began working her way along the smaller wounds on his legs.

When she and Isobel finished caring for him and had pulled on his new pyjama trousers, Isobel gathered up the used supplies and discarded clothing and went away to tend to the next soldier. At least, that was what she said she was going to do, but when she left the ward, she did not return for some minutes, and Mary did not see her moving about in the hall. Mary carried the privacy screens back to their proper place, then pulled up a chair and sat beside the sleeping Matthew to wait.

* * *

Sybil finished changing the dressing on Lt. Pearson's amputated knee and gathered up her armful of supplies, giving him an encouraging smile as he lay back against the pillow, pale and exhausted from the ordeal, his eyes falling closed. She turned and nearly ran into Branson.

She drew back and looked at him. "What are you doing here?"

He gestured with the large basket he carried. "Her Ladyship sent me to make sure you eat lunch."

Sybil sighed and shook her head, moving past him with her arms full. "Oh, not this again. I can't possibly! I've told her I'm too busy."

Branson followed her, not put off in the least. "She insisted."

Sybil carefully set down her bottle of antiseptic, scissors, rolls of bandage, gauze pads, and the basin filled with the bloody, used items, quickly emptying it into a nearby rubbish bin and beginning to scrub her hands in the sink.

"I've only finished half the room!" she protested. "There are men still waiting to be seen! Their wounds need cleaning."

"They can wait five minutes more," Branson urged. "Just one sandwich, only a mouthful. You'll be done in no time and I'll stop pestering you. I can't possibly return to Lady Grantham and earn another dressing-down for not following her instructions to the letter."

Sybil turned to look at him, incredulous, as she rinsed her hands. "You can't force-feed me! Neither can she."

"Just one bite," Branson repeated. His eyes took her in. "You look tired."

Sybil pressed her lips together and looked away as she dried her hands. "Fine. One sandwich."

"Then I promise I'll go away."

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. "I'm not trying to send you away," she said. "It's just that Mama has no idea..."

"She has more than you think," he answered wisely. "You can't fault her for caring. Who else will look after you while you look after these men? They're not the only heroes, you know."

Her heart softened as she met his eyes. He held out the basket.

She lifted the lid and her mouth fell open. "I couldn't possibly eat all of this, even if I took an hour away to do it!"

Branson chuckled. "It's not just for you, my lady. I'm to make sure that Lady Mary and Mrs Crawley eat as well."

"Good," Sybil nodded, unwrapping a triangle of ham-and-cheese sandwich. "This is enough for me. Go. Go."

Branson watched her, unmoving. She frowned at him, then sighed and took a bite of the sandwich, raising her eyebrows. With a small smile, he nodded and went into the ward.

Sybil followed him a short distance, watching from the hall as he easily navigated between the nurses and the beds with the heavy basket. It struck her then that he was fit, with broad shoulders and a sturdy frame. She was secretly grateful that his heart murmur excluded him from active service, because it meant she didn't have to face what Mary was facing right now.

Sybil's eyes fell to Matthew's still form, lying on the bed. His chest rose and fell with faint movements, but he was otherwise still unresponsive. Mary looked up as Branson approached, and the polite but weary expression on her face squeezed Sybil's heart. Sybil knew a sandwich would taste like dust to Mary, but Mary would obediently eat it to keep up her strength, for Matthew's sake. She had sat beside him for more than two hours now. She'd made an attempt to clean his hair, but it needed a more thorough washing, and all such efforts must wait until after Major Clarkson had seen to him.

Clarkson was nearly to the back of the room now, and when he emerged from the next soldier's screened-off bed and Isobel began to move the screens towards Matthew's bed, Mary and Branson moved quickly to help her. Sybil chewed as she watched him and Mary working easily together.

How would Mary view him if he became her brother-in-law? Sybil swallowed and frowned, turning away. Would her family ever accept him?

She quickly finished eating and washed her hands. When she turned around, Branson was emerging from the ward, empty-handed, and he didn't see her. Her eyes fell to his lips as he moved past and she wanted to hold him, to be comforted by his steady presence. The moment passed, and he walked away down the hall and went out, the door closing behind him.

_I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me._

She pressed her fingers to her lips; they tingled. This was a new feeling, this desire to touch him. As much as he irritated her at times, he was a good man, with passionate beliefs, intelligent and kind, and he loved her. She didn't know how or why he did, but she knew that he would be steadfast, no matter how long she put him off. In truth, she wasn't certain how much longer she wanted to, really.

Another nurse came out of the ward, carrying the used basin from Clarkson's last patient, and Sybil straightened.

She had work to do, and there was no use contemplating the future until after the war was over.

* * *

"Matthew," Mary said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Matthew...wake up. The doctor's ready to see you now."

Matthew groaned and turned his head towards the sound, making Mary gasp. She renewed her efforts, her heart leaping and clenching painfully all at once.

"Matthew! Matthew."

"Uhh," he groaned groggily. His eyes opened a slit and then closed again as he gave a drugged-looking frown. "Mmma...?"

"Yes, Matthew, it's me!" Mary leaned closer, stroking his temple, one of the few areas on his face that didn't bear wounds.

"Mar...y?"

"Yes. And your mother is here, and Dr Clarkson. You're at Downton hospital now, my darling, safe. Do you remember what happened?"

Matthew's eyes fluttered open, moving slowly around without focusing on anything in particular. Isobel stood silently at his feet, her hands clasped tightly on the metal bed frame.

"Shell..." Matthew answered.

Clarkson approached on the other side of the bed, bending over Matthew and putting a hand on his shoulder. Mary straightened slightly, keeping her hand in Matthew's as she pressed her lips together and swallowed.

"How are you feeling, Captain Crawley?"

"Um..." Matthew worked to swallow.

"Are you in pain?" Clarkson asked. Matthew's brow furrowed, but after a moment, he shook his head slightly. Isobel released a breath as Clarkson continued. "Mrs Crawley tells me that you have a deep wound on your back. We need to turn you on your side so that I can see it. May we do that?"

"Mrs..." Matthew answered. "Mary?"

"No, your mother, darling," Mary said, giving his hand a squeeze. His eyes tracked over to her face. "We're both right here. We're going to turn you. Just look at me."

Matthew obeyed her as Clarkson and Isobel shifted him. Matthew never once winced during the process; he just looked groggy and distant. Mary helped Clarkson pull up Matthew's shirt until it was bunched under his armpits and she held it there, keeping Matthew steady as he lay on his side. Clarkson knelt beside the bed with a frown, nodding. He moved his hands over Matthew's lower back and Mary looked down at Matthew's face. His eyes were unfocused, but they were open. She squeezed his hand again and he closed them.

"Can you feel that?" Clarkson asked. When Matthew didn't respond, Clarkson raised his voice. "Captain Crawley?"

Matthew nodded slowly.

"He says 'yes'," Mary answered quickly.

"And that?"

Matthew made no response; Mary leaned down closer to him.

"Darling?" she asked. "Can you feel that?"

"Feel what?" Matthew mumbled.

"Can you feel me pressing on your back?" Clarkson asked.

Matthew shook his head and Clarkson frowned.

"What about that?"

"No," Matthew answered softly.

There was a soft scraping sound and Mary turned to look. It was her father, peering through the narrow space he'd made between two screens, a worried look on his face.

"And that? Hm?" Clarkson continued.

"Nothing..."

"Nothing at all?" Clarkson's voice had taken on a slight edge, and Mary saw that he was pressing not on Matthew's back now, but on his calf. Mary looked quickly from him to Isobel, frowning in confusion and worry. Isobel's eyes were wide and she blinked as she looked down at her son. Mary followed her gaze and saw that Matthew's eyes had fallen closed again.

"My darling..." he sighed sleepily, a slight smile on his face.

Clarkson stood up, his face set in a deep frown. He turned to Isobel. "Was there any staining on his trousers?"

Isobel swallowed. "Yes."

Clarkson gave her a brief nod, his jaw working as he fixed her in a significant look. "You know what to do."

Isobel nodded, her expression determined, although Mary saw that her hands were shaking slightly. "It will be done."

Clarkson glanced at Robert, then looked back at Mary. The doctor sighed and held out his arm in a beckoning gesture. "Lady Mary, I wonder if I might have a word?"

She gave Matthew—who appeared to have drifted back to sleep—a final look. Nodding, she followed Clarkson.

Robert silently stood aside to let them pass, then went inside the screened-off area as Isobel asked, "Would you remain with him a moment?"

"Of course," Robert murmured, and then their conversation moved out of earshot as Mary followed Clarkson to his office.

* * *

"Don't hide anything from me," Mary insisted, when Clarkson had closed the door.

"You might want to sit down," Clarkson replied. He went across the room, gesturing at the chairs. He sat against the front edge of his desk, facing Mary, and waited.

"I'd rather stand," she answered, drawing closer, her body heavy with dread.

"Very well." He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "It's not good news, I'm afraid. I'd say the spinal cord has been transected, that it is permanently damaged."

Mary wished she had followed Clarkson's suggestion to sit. Her hands first went out, reaching for something to steady her against, but finding only air, she brought them back together and clasped them tightly.

"Will he walk again?" she forced out.

Clarkson paused a heartbeat, his eyes filling with regret. "If I'm right, then no, he won't." His eyes fell away from hers, then flickered back up, then dropped again.

Mary stood silently and unclasped her hands, letting them fall to her sides. She closed her mouth and looked down, fighting to keep her composure, to form another thought, to ask another question. Their life would be different, now. Snatches and visions of future days stretched out before her, and she saw Matthew, sitting, in each of them. A rush of grief burned and pressed upon her like a tidal wave, but she could not—not now. Not yet. Later.

They would be together from now on. That would be enough.

"It gets worse," Clarkson said, and Mary nodded, still looking at the floor. She drew herself up with a deep breath and met his eyes, her heart beating in her chest. Clarkson continued. "He is also likely to be permanently incontinent and...impotent."

Mary felt her heart drop, a lead weight pulling her down, hurting so badly she thought something in her might break.

"No..." she whispered, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. No more sound could be permitted, or she would begin to sob. She dragged her eyes up to Clarkson's again. "Forever?"

Clarkson swallowed and glanced down briefly before once again meeting her desperate gaze. "The sexual reflex is controlled at a lower level of the spine to the motor function of the legs. Once the latter is cut off, so is the former. I'm so sorry, my lady."

Mary could only nod numbly. Her legs felt weak and her head was spinning, so she gave up attempting to stand and came round a chair, lowering herself into it. Clarkson stood up from the desk with a weary air.

"I'll leave you now," he said. "Take as long as you need."

Mary surrendered to her grief before the door had even clicked shut behind him.

* * *

Matthew lay napping on the green lawn outside Downton Abbey, the sun warming his skin. He felt someone shifting beside him and smiled.

"Matthew..." Mary called softly, in a light sing-song, her lovely face hovering above him, framed by the yellowed stone of the great house and the clear blue sky beyond. Her hand drifted down his abdomen, promising, enticing. Could there be a more perfect moment?

"Matthew..."

Although her face had not moved away, her voice echoed as though she were speaking through a long tunnel. He blinked and frowned, the lovely vision fading as he roused and slowly opened his eyes, seeing the hospital ward. Mary sat beside his bed. The sun still shone warm on his skin, but the view of the room was decidedly less pleasant than his dream had been.

"Are you feeling a bit less groggy?" Mary's eyes were bright, but there was a false ring of cheerfulness in her voice. Her hands were clasped tightly on her lap.

Matthew groaned softly as his body began to report all of its aches and complaints. His arms were stiff and his cheeks stung when he moved his mouth, so he stilled. His stomach was a little queasy and he felt hollow. His mouth and throat were dry, but the thought of taking a sip of water just made his stomach turn. God, he felt awful. How had he come to be here? What was the last thing he remembered? There was an explosion, William had screamed—

"How's William?" His words came out sounding thin and scratchy, half-voiced and half-whispered. He swallowed thickly as he looked at Mary. "You know he tried to save me?"

Her fixed expression fell, and although she fought to restore a small smile, she failed.

"He isn't too good, I'm afraid," she answered.

Matthew looked at the ceiling with a familiar sense of deadening resignation, as half-formed thoughts trickled in.

"Is Mother here?"

Mary's voice lightened a bit. "Yes, she's about, somewhere. She'll come by presently." Mary smiled. "She doesn't let more than a few minutes go by without checking on you."

Matthew looked back at the ceiling, weary. He had vague, dreamlike memories of Clarkson prodding at him, asking him to feel something, but Matthew couldn't feel it. At the time, it hadn't seemed to matter, but Matthew realised now that his body was oddly thick and heavy and distant. His legs. He tried to move one, but nothing responded.

He tried again, thinking aloud. "I've still got this funny thing with my legs...I can't seem to move them." He stared at the ceiling, considering the odd sensation—or rather, the lack of it. "Or feel them, now that I think about it." It was exceedingly strange: it felt as if his clothing ended near his belly button; the weight of the blankets, the warmth under them, everything just...stopped. How odd. He looked at Mary. "Did Clarkson mention what that might be?"

Mary's eyes were wide and she pressed her lips together. Her gaze was fixed on his, but she looked as though she wished she could flee.

He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me."

"You've not even been here for twenty-four hours." She gave a small shake of her head. "Nothing will have settled down yet."

"Tell me," he demanded. He felt bile rising in his throat and he swallowed, fighting it back. He must hear her answer.

Mary gathered herself for a heartbeat, then spoke. "He says you may have damaged your spine." Matthew's stomach plummeted and he looked up at nothing in particular.  _A cripple._  Perhaps it was only partial, only temporary, some fleeting result of trauma?

"How long will it take to repair?"

"We can't expect them to put timings on that sort of thing."

Her words were spoken in a tone that encouraged him to be patient, but her voice cut off so abruptly at the end that he heard what she wasn't saying. He pressed one last time, not yet ready to believe it.

"But he did say it would get better?"

"He says the first task is to rebuild your health, and that's what we have to concentrate on."

She had raised her eyebrows for emphasis, so clearly trying to be positive that it hurt to watch, and he looked away as the last, faint hope drained out and left him a useless lump lying in a bed.

"I see."

It was disorienting, seeing his feet at the end of the bed, two hills under the blanket, and yet he was as powerless to feel or move them as he was to feel or move the cart that stood on the opposite side of the ward. He wasn't even half a man—

He looked up at the white ceiling again. His legs weren't the only things he couldn't feel.

_He wasn't even a man at all._

Grief flooded him and he swallowed convulsively, lost, the room swimming in a nauseating fashion.

Mary was still talking, oblivious. Mary, his  _wife_. A new rush of nausea filled him and he swallowed, and swallowed again.

"...there is no reason why you should not have a perfectly full and normal life." These last words were spoken with a quaver.

_She lies._

"Just not a very mobile one." Matthew looked at her then, bitterness mixing with the nausea.

Mary met his eyes, her eyebrows and mouth tugging up and down repeatedly as she visibly fought the urge to burst into tears.

Self-hatred filled him as he watched her. How must she see him now? He was  _nothing_. She was chained to a dead weight in the prime of her life. What little he had been able to offer her before was all gone now. Crippled. Impotent. He wasn't a husband; he was debris, broken and discarded like everything else the war touched.

This was worse than his worst nightmare. It had never even occurred to him that he might become  _this_.

Nausea rolled through him as hot, stinging tears rose in his eyes and his fists clenched the blankets. Death would have been preferable. It was what he had asked for, but like every other request, it had been ignored.

"Would you like some tea?" Mary asked, the polite absurdity of her question a mask for a thousand unspoken things. "I would." She broke from his gaze and rose, turning to walk away, and something in him hurt terribly at the parting.

"Thank you for telling me," he said quickly, begging her to stay a moment more, and she twisted, her mouth dropping open slightly as she looked at him, pain and pity clear in her eyes. He pressed on, despite the blurring at the edges of his vision, despite how the sides of his mouth were pulling down against his will. He fought it, looking away from her pale, beautiful face. "I know I'm blubbing—" His voice broke. "—but I mean it." He looked farther away from her, not wanting her to witness his shame, but the metal bars of the bed frame and the whitewashed plaster wall were the only things to see, and they reminded him of where he was. He closed his eyes. "I'd much rather know." There was no respite in the darkness, so he opened his eyes again, barely glancing at her before looking up at the ceiling again. He fought the hot pressure that was building in his face, gathering behind his eyes, and tightening in his chest as he forced out two final words. "Thank you."

"Blub all you like, darling," she replied quietly, a sad smile in her tone. "It wouldn't be the first time."

He expelled an unexpected, broken laugh and the floodgates opened, the sound immediately becoming a sob. He covered his face with his hands and shook. A moment later he felt the bed tilt and then a moment after that, an arm rested across his chest and a warm, slender hand stroked through his hair. Lips grazed his cheekbone and then—

"I love you," she whispered, but his grief only increased.

* * *

Sybil walked down the path to the garage, weary after the long day. Light spilled out through the open door and she saw Branson sitting inside, on the side-step of the car, reading a newspaper.

"Mama wants you to bring some of tonight's dinner to Isobel and Mary at the hospital."

"All right." Branson looked back down at his paper, then let it fall with a resigned look. "How's William?"

Sybil shook her head as she walked past him to lean her hip against the car. "It's so sad. Mrs Hughes is taking care of him, but there's nothing to be done. We're waiting, really." Branson stared into the middle distance, a look of dismay on his face, and Sybil frowned. Something besides William's fatally-damaged lungs was bothering him. "What is it?" she asked.

Branson took a couple seconds to turn his head in her direction; he looked a little lost as he did.

"They shot the Tsar. And all of his family."

"How terrible!"

Branson shook his head. "I'm sorry." His voice trembled and he stood up suddenly, tossing the newspaper on the front seat of the car. "I'll not deny it." He pushed his hands into his pockets and Sybil blinked with surprise at the dampness in his eyes. "I never thought they'd do it." After a moment, he focused on her. "But sometimes the future needs terrible sacrifices. You thought that once, too."

"If you mean my politics, you know we've agreed to put that to one side until the war is won."

Branson glanced away with an annoyed nod, then looked back at her. "Your lot did, but Sylvia Pankhurst was all for fighting on."

Sybil sagged with frustration, then stalked angrily past him. "Oh, don't badger me, please!"

She pulled up short with a gasp, stopped by Branson's warm hand on her hip; he'd moved to block her exit. They both froze. She frowned and looked up at him. He'd never touched her before.

He swallowed as he met her eyes. Slowly, he drew back and he put his hands in his pockets.

"Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having," he said, then shook his head slightly, and his voice grew gentle. "That's all I'm saying." His eyes were wide, begging for her forgiveness, her ear. "That's up to you."

She looked away, then looked back, and her eyes settled on his lips. His hand had been warm; she imagined his mouth would be, too.

His eyes dropped to her mouth and he leaned slightly forward, but she closed her eyes in sudden fear, not ready, and turned aside. She took quick steps, urging her feet to carry her out of the garage, away from the moment, away from him.

The soft sound of his sigh behind her broke her heart, and she hurried up the path, her chest burning.

* * *

"You can't  _want_  this," Matthew replied bitterly, not looking at Mary, who sat on the edge of his bed.

"And if I should just want to be with you? On any terms?"

Matthew glared at the ceiling with bitter humour. What a ridiculous notion.

"No one sane would want to be with me as I am now." Revulsion filled him. "Including me." His stomach turned and bile rose in his throat; this time he couldn't swallow it back. "Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick."

Mary moved quickly, twisting to pick up a basin. He pushed himself up just as the vomit forced itself out and he retched into the basin, his stomach heaving, hating that she was witnessing this awful display.

"It's all right," she murmured, rubbing his shoulder. "It's perfectly all right."

 _It is_ not _bloody all right!_  he wanted to growl at her, but he was exhausted and his mouth tasted awful. He fell back against the pillow, gasping for breath and utterly drained. His stomach was a hollow ache. Mary dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a towel.

_This is what she has to look forward to. A life as a nursemaid to a cripple._

He was glad his stomach was empty.

_You never did ask Him if you ought to go to war, did you?_

Matthew froze.

_She tried to tell you not to go, but did you listen to her, either?_

A lead weight settled on his chest and he couldn't move. He'd prayed for courage, for peace, for safety, even for a quick death. But he'd never  _asked_  if he should go to war in the first place. He'd just assumed. Not to go was unthinkable, cowardly, wrong...

...but was it? Was the war even  _just?_  Surely whatever modest gains had been made could not warrant the awful losses, on both sides!

Had he committed a terrible error in judgement and cost himself and Mary  _everything?_

She'd stood by him so faithfully, despite her qualms. She'd loved him without reservation, given herself to him, entrusted him with her future. What a fool he'd been!

_Why did you rush her into marriage? Was it for her sake, or yours?_

His. He hadn't wanted to go to war without being with her; he hadn't wanted to die never having known her touch.

_You have reaped a curse, a fitting reward for your selfishness._

But Mary is innocent!

_Then set her free._

The weight on Matthew's chest lightened by a notch. Yes, he could do that for her, at least.

His heart rebelled, but he quashed it. He'd taken more from her than had ever been his right and his selfishness would end  _now_.

_What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder._

Matthew frowned.

 _But_ did _God join you together? Do you truly think He cares a whit for whom you marry? That He cares about the mundane details of any man's life?_

All those marriages of convenience, based on wealth and status, could not possibly claim the distinction of being by God's decree, Matthew reflected. Marriage was a human transaction and to dignify it with a divine blessing seemed presumptuous at best, delusional at worst. It was wishful thinking.

_Speaking of wishful thinking, you'd managed to convince yourself that the differences between you in class and wealth didn't matter, but all your old insecurities about whether you were good enough for her seem rather petty now, don't you think?_

Matthew gave a bitter laugh.

"What is it?" Mary asked, folding the cloth in her lap.

"I was just thinking," he answered. "It seems such a short time ago since I feared that I couldn't meet your expectations of a husband, and now look at me. An impotent cripple, stinking of sick. You have to admit, it's quite funny."

She gave him a look. "All I'll admit is that you're here and you've survived the war. That's enough for now."

He grit his teeth, annoyed, and looked away. "I won't fight with you."

"Good," his mother said crisply, stopping at the foot of his bed. "Self-pity is never attractive."

He glared at her but she ignored him, coming round the bed and gathering up the basin with the vomit. She covered it with a clean cloth as she straightened.

"Would you like some tea, my dear?" she asked Mary. "I'm afraid there's no reasoning with him when he's in one of his moods."

"This isn't a  _mood_ ," Matthew growled.

The two women raised their eyebrows at him. He flared his nostrils, his jaw working, and looked away.

"Yes," Mary replied, looking up at Isobel. "I think I would."

Matthew heard the slight catch in her voice and closed his eyes as she stood, feeling her absence before she and his mother had even left the room.

* * *

**A week later**

Isobel heard raised voices as she approached Major Clarkson's office and she frowned. She paused outside, knowing that she oughtn't eavesdrop, but this was  _Matthew's_  diagnosis they were discussing. She considered Major Clarkson an excellent physician, but he could be rather stubborn at times, and he tended towards pessimism. He was speaking now and she could hear him, muffled though he was by the door.

"I don't agree! It is better to leave crushed hopes now than to let them die slowly later, surely?"

Isobel's heart fell and her chest tightened painfully.  _Oh Matthew!_

He would never walk again, never stand tall...never have children. Clarkson had not said it in so many words to her, but the awful truth could not be avoided. She knew enough of anatomy to know  _that_.

_Oh Matthew...!_

She drew in a breath that was half a sob, forced her feet to keep going, and turned a corner into the storeroom. It was thankfully empty. Pushing the door closed behind her, she pressed her back against it and closed her eyes, drawing in slow, deliberate breaths and fighting against the shuddering in her chest. It would not do for Matthew or Mary to see that she'd been crying. She must put a brave face on it now; she would have the luxury of privacy later. She could hold it back until then. She had decades of practice and she had never failed.

 _Except once..._  Reginald. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden ache of loneliness and the shared pain that she imagined. Oh, how he would have mourned the knowledge that he would never have grandchildren! He had always been so good with the little ones, so easily able to win their trust and their smiles...

Her heart squeezed and a fresh rush of grief threatened to overwhelm her self-control. How desperately she had loved him; how beautiful he was!

And how reasonable and calm and clear-headed he would be right now. She could almost feel the comforting strokes of his hands on her upper arms, even if there would be pain in his eyes.

She lifted her head, nodding, and blew out a careful breath. Opening her eyes, she breathed through her nose, waiting patiently for the stinging behind her eyes and the heat in her cheeks and the tightness in her chest to abate. This was not the end of Matthew's life; he would likely recover his health, if not his mobility, and he would make do. Perhaps his condition was not as extreme as she imagined. Perhaps, in time, he might be able to father a child, although it would not be easy to achieve. Modern medicine was advancing every day and the war had already prompted many new developments. But his wife would need to be very patient.

Isobel felt a rush of gratitude for Mary. She would lift his spirits, convince him not to give up, and remain his devoted companion for a lifetime. But oh!—Isobel's heart twisted—to have finally come so close to being able to have a family and then for this cruel turn of fate to crush their hopes!

 _Lord!_  her heart cried.  _How could you be so cruel?!_

She dragged in another breath, covering her mouth at the sound of her involuntary sob, and then she grit her teeth and stamped her heel into the floor. She lifted her head again, dropping her hand and exhaling carefully. She would. not. cry. She closed her eyes and breathed.

Then Isobel opened them and blinked.

_Why had Major Clarkson been arguing with Sir John?_

A sparrow lifted its wings in her heart. She heard a shuffling outside and looked up, turning quickly and pulling open the door.

Major Clarkson was walking away down the hall, heading towards the ward where Matthew lay, to deliver the bad news, no doubt. Isobel crossed the short distance to Clarkson's office and poked her head around the corner—

Relief suffused her. Sir John was standing in front of Clarkson's desk, slipping a sheaf of papers into his briefcase, clearly making preparations to leave. Isobel glanced down the hall: Major Clarkson was walking into the ward. She slipped into the office and pushed the door most of the way closed, unable through long habit to bring herself to close it entirely—alone, as she would be, in a room with a man who wasn't her husband—and Sir John looked up in surprise.

"Mrs Crawley," he said carefully, taking in her stiff posture. "How may I help you?"

There was no use in beating about the bush. "I overheard part of your argument with Major Clarkson," she said, watching as Sir John winced before shooting her a polite half-smile. "Was there some disagreement about my son's diagnosis?"

Sir John regarded her for a long moment.

"Major Clarkson thinks Matthew's spine is transected," Isobel supplied, and waited.

Sir John sighed. "Mrs Crawley—"

Isobel took a step forward. "Do you think there is hope that Matthew might recover some of his mobility?"

Sir John turned back to his briefcase. "I really couldn't say."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?" Isobel heard the sharpness in her tone and she didn't want to drive this man, this one vague and desperate hope, away. "I'm sorry," she amended quickly, "but I cannot bear to be left with only partial information regarding my son's diagnosis. I know there is room for doubt: his vertebrae are intact, not shattered, as a blunt-force trauma such as would be required for transection might demand."

"They are not broken, that is true," Sir John said slowly. "But that does not imply that the cord is not transected. It is still quite possible." He turned away.

Isobel watched him stand in stiff silence, his back to her, and she clasped her hands together. She wanted to shout, to demand information, to stalk across the room and drag it out of him, but she knew that if she pressed too hard, he would leave without another word. She strongly suspected that whatever he knew was warring with his tacit professional agreement with Major Clarkson to cede authority over the patient to his primary physician. A specialist was called in only to assist, after all, not to overrule. A physician knew his own patients and all of the specifics that were peculiar to their situation, and he would be the one called upon to tend to them long after the specialist had gone. To speak out of turn could mean doing more harm than good, except in matters of life and death, which this was not.

Isobel swallowed. "I will not speak of anything to my son, unless by Major Clarkson's explicit permission."

Sir John turned, his eyes narrowed. "Major Clarkson's decisions must not be undermined, no matter how well-intentioned your actions might be. Captain Crawley appears to be in a...fragile state."

Isobel lifted her chin. "Understandably."

"Quite," Sir John said quickly. "I meant no disrespect." He seemed to be gathering his resolve, and then he spoke again. "I cannot know for certain that Captain Crawley's spine is not transected."

"Of course," Isobel replied, deliberately slowing her words even as she felt her heart speeding up. "But you have reason to suspect it is not?"

Sir John nodded and waved her over. He picked up a film and held it between them and the window. Isobel recognised the film as one of the x-rays that she'd supervised Sybil in taking of Matthew's spine.

"Here," Sir John said, tapping on the clearly-misaligned vertebra. "There is still room for the spinal cord to pass through. It is under stress, certainly, and is quite severely compressed at the moment, but this might be as far as this vertebra was ever pushed, in which case Captain Crawley might be suffering merely the effects of ongoing spinal shock. There have been a few cases of a complete or near-complete loss of sensation and control under such conditions."

Isobel's mind reeled as she took this in. "Spinal...shock?" She plucked desperately at long-unused medical knowledge, unwilling to let her hopes soar free even as they flapped madly against the edges of her mind. "Does that imply that  _complete_ —" at this, she chanced a glance up at Sir John, and his small answering smile made something in her explode in a wild flurry of joy, "—recovery is possible?"

But his face was composed again, sober. "That is the best possible scenario,  _only_ ," he replied, holding up his free hand in a cautionary gesture as he lowered the film with the other. "His vertebra might well have been forced all the way forward, transecting the cord, and then, due to the recoil, been pushed back to its current position."

Isobel nodded slowly, absorbing this. "And there would be no way to tell the state of the cord without surgery."

"Which would most assuredly  _not_  be a good idea," Sir John said quickly.

Isobel looked up at him with a frown, nodding. "It would be a further, unnecessary trauma for mere fact-finding purposes."

"Worse than that," Sir John replied. "It could very well  _cause_  a transection if one has not already occurred."

"What?"

"Look at this," Sir John said, and pointed at the dislocated vertebra again. "See how it is resting on the facet of the vertebra beneath it?"

Isobel's eyes widened. She hadn't looked that closely at the image before now. "It's... _teetering_."

"Precisely," Sir John replied, his tone heavy.

"Could it ever be manipulated back into place?" she asked. "Or must he forever be treated with kid gloves, for fear that the vertebrae will shift forward?"

Sir John regarded the x-ray thoughtfully. "Perhaps, in a few months' time, after the swelling has receded, we might see where the bones are resting. The inflammation may be what is holding the vertebrae in that position. But there would be no point in performing such a painful procedure if his spinal cord were transected."

"True," Isobel replied, her heart thudding somewhere low and heavy again.

"There  _is_  a way to tell whether the cord is transected or merely bruised, without surgery," Sir John said quietly, and Isobel looked up at him.

"His symptoms."

"Yes." Sir John sighed. "And by all outward indications, the prognosis is not good." He studied Isobel's face a moment, judging whether to continue. She straightened and steeled herself, nodding for him to speak. "In cases of spinal shock, based on the severity of the trauma, the recovery period is usually on the order of hours to days."

 _But Matthew has been unable to feel or move his lower body for more than a week now_ , she realised.

Sir John saw the understanding dawn on her face and he turned away, his expression pained.

"But you still disagreed with Major Clarkson," Isobel said, putting out a hand. "I heard you arguing."

Sir John nodded, not meeting her eyes. "Based only on what we know right now, I do not disagree with his diagnosis," he said carefully. "I only disagreed with his decision to withhold my dissent and my reasoning for it." Sir John bent to close his briefcase and then he picked it up off the desk and turned to face her. "A week, perhaps a fortnight, might be in the realm of possibility for recovery, although it would be highly unusual. But if Captain Crawley's condition shows no sign of improving by then, I will be forced to agree with Major Clarkson."

Isobel nodded. As much as she wanted a positive outcome, she knew it was wishful thinking at best. She pressed her lips together, fighting a renewed rush of grief and despair. How much worse it must be for Matthew to be trapped in a broken body! Isobel pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

Sir John reached out, slowly, and rested his hand on her shoulder. "If Captain Crawley complains of the slightest sensation of any kind–tingling, itching, pain, burning, cold,  _anything_ , no matter how slight–please contact me at once."

"But what of phantom sensations?" Isobel asked.

Sir John shook his head, dropping his hand to his side. "His limbs aren't severed. Any sensations at all would be a promising sign. But again, there would be no guarantee of a recovery."

"Is there any way to tell how significant they might be?"

"Not initially," Sir John replied. "But keep me informed. Lord Grantham was right to summon me. I fear that Major Clarkson has a rather...melancholic...disposition."

Isobel laughed and wiped at her eye. She nodded. "I will. Thank you, Sir John."

"Not a hint to the patient," he replied. "I have your word."

"You do," Isobel replied.  _But I made no promise about withholding information from the patient's wife._  She smiled. "I will see you out."

"I know the way," Sir John said, his eyes kind, and he stepped towards the door. Isobel knew he was giving her a moment to collect herself in private.

"Thank you," she repeated, and he paused at the door, giving her a tight smile as he left.

Oh God! There was hope. A slim one, but  _hope!_

She smiled, wiped at her eyes, collected herself, and went out, already planning when she might take Mary aside.

 


	25. Chapter 25

_25_

**September 1918**

The hospital lorry bumped over a rut in the road, jostling Matthew as he lay on his stretcher, staring up at the metal ceiling. Downton Abbey. How strange to think of it as a convalescent home where  _he_  would soon be a patient. Even here, the war had transformed life into something nearly unrecognisable.

Despite the welcome change of scenery, it did little to improve his mood. This day dragged on as all of them did, with an interminable sameness. His skin no longer stung when he moved and he could sit up for an hour or two before needing to be helped back down so he could rest, but nothing seemed to provide respite from this weary sense of pointlessness that had settled itself on his soul.

Mary had brought some of his favourite books to read, and had plied him with his favourite dishes from Mrs Bird—"It's what you like, not what's good for you," his mother had said, but even that couldn't made him smile. Mary had sat with him and said bracing, cheerful things, but nothing lifted the curtain of melancholy. The words on the pages failed to hold his attention; the books seemed like dear old friends who had come to visit but had grown strangely unfamiliar. The food was similar, and he pushed the dishes aside, not wanting to replace what had been happy memories with the taste of dust. Of course Mary and his mother wanted him to eat to keep up his strength, but he only did it to satisfy them, and he was relieved when they went away.

Hours would pass and he had no recollection of them; naught remained except the constant awareness that he was nothing, broken, and so, so weary of soul. Sleep provided an escape, when it would come, but he felt so terribly  _alone_.

_I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me..._

Matthew closed his eyes. Mary was kind and attentive, but even her beautiful face and gentle hands couldn't banish his mood. It was a strange sensation, to feel distant from her even as she sat beside him. Perhaps it was because he couldn't feel the warmth or pressure of her thigh against his own, even though he could clearly see her sitting there. But of all the things that passed through his days, she was the most welcome.

That was not to say he always welcomed her presence, but she came closest to lifting the curtain. Sometimes, when she smiled, he wanted to smile with her. He'd tried, at first, but it took too much effort to feel happy, and he abhorred the falseness he felt when he did it. He couldn't lie to her, but showing the truth hurt her, too. There was nothing he could do, no way out, and when she went away, he was relieved, for a short while at least.

As the lorry pulled on to the drive in front of the great house and the sounds under the tyres changed to gravel, Matthew opened his eyes and wondered how long this heavy emptiness would last. In his usual blunt way, Major Clarkson had informed Matthew that his life expectancy was shortened, because the immobility and the resulting weakening of his crippled body would make him more susceptible to illness.

A black humour filled him.  _At least there is the promise of an early death_.

The lorry rolled to a stop and he heard the cabin doors slamming shut, then quick footfalls— _I'm never going to make those again_ —coming round to the back. An orderly yanked open the doors and light flooded in, making Matthew briefly squeeze his eyes shut.

"Lt. Pearson, Capt. Crawley, we've arrived at the big house!" the nearest orderly announced in a too-bright voice. The lorry rocked as he easily climbed inside and took Lt. Pearson by the elbow, helping the man stand with the aid of his new stick and ushering him into the waiting hands of the second orderly with a cheerful, "There you are!"

The first orderly turned to Matthew and got a firm grip on the stretcher handles near Matthew's head. "You'll be inside and back in a comfortable bed in no time, sir," the young man said, smiling. "I'm sorry if you were jarred. I tried me best."

Matthew pressed his lips together and nodded, then felt himself being lifted up as the second man took hold of the other end of the stretcher.

"It's a lovely day out," the man observed, carefully lowering Matthew's stretcher from the lorry. "Not a cloud in the sky!"

"I'd walk wi' me girl on a day like this," the first orderly answered.

"Wait 'til the war's over and you will!" the other replied, and the two young men laughed. Their banter was good-natured, but their words still stabbed Matthew through.

"Bring Capt. Crawley this way," a familiar voice commanded, and Matthew squinted as Thomas appeared above him. Thomas did not smile or otherwise make an attempt to cheer Matthew up, for which Matthew was grateful.

"Yes, sir, Sgt. Barrow, sir," the first orderly quickly replied, and they carried Matthew up the short steps and through Downton Abbey's foyer— _I've never seen it from this angle before,_  Matthew thought, with a smirk that never quite reached his lips—as they went into the great hall. The familiar view swayed in strange ways as the orderlies walked through to the sitting room, which was bright with the late-morning sunlight and filled with rows upon rows of starched white hospital beds.

"This one's for Capt. Crawley," Thomas said, and then, "Carefully, man!" as Matthew was suddenly tipped and he reflexively grabbed the sides of his stretcher.

"Sorry, sir," the second orderly said. The three men got Matthew situated on the bed and the stretcher out from under him while he did his best to simply lie still and let them shift him about like a piece of furniture. He tried to make himself comfortable on the pillow as the two orderlies departed.

Sybil stepped up to Matthew's bedside with a warm smile. "Good morning, Matthew. Sgt. Barrow's just gone off to fetch Mary and your new chair."

 _His chair_. The wheelchair that would be his constant companion for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes.

"Papa had it sent up from London," Sybil continued. "It arrived yesterday afternoon. It's very well made, better than the usual ones, at least."

Matthew managed a sigh.

"How are you feeling?" Sybil asked. "Do you need anything? A glass of water?"

He was thirsty, but he would have to be sat up to drink it. He shook his head. He was weary and just wanted to be left alone for a while.

It seemed only seconds later—although the passage of time had become a rather fluid thing, so Matthew couldn't be sure—when he felt a light touch on his wrist and he opened his eyes.

It was Mary, leaning over him, an intentionally-cheerful smile on her face.

"Sgt. Barrow is here with your chair," she said softly. "Do you think you're up for it? He and Sybil are ready to help."

Matthew swallowed, then took them all in with a glance and nodded, setting his jaw. He might as well get this ordeal over with. He blew out a breath and pushed himself up to a seated position with a groan, as Mary kept a firm arm across his back to steady him. The sudden rise left him slightly dizzy for a moment, and he was grateful for the few seconds Thomas required to get the chair into position.

Matthew looked at it. It was quite a nice chair, he had to admit. It had polished dark wood, with sturdy, well-made wheels that somehow implied elegance without detracting from their strength, and comfortable armrests.

 _When did you become an expert on evaluating wheelchairs?_  a sniping little voice asked, but Matthew quelled it. He might hate the prospect of sitting in a chair for the rest of his days, but he could still appreciate good workmanship when he saw it.

"I'll have to thank Robert," Matthew said.

"You just did," a quiet voice replied, and Matthew turned his head in surprise. Robert was standing on the opposite side of his bed. He must have arrived while Matthew was dozing.

"Thank you, truly," Matthew repeated, but Robert just shook his head.

"Let's get you into it first and see if it suits you," he said. "I can always send for another."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Matthew answered. "Let's do this."

"That's the spirit!" Sybil said, and she lifted his ankles and swung his legs off the bed. Mary stood back as Sybil and Thomas both got a shoulder under Matthew's armpits and lifted him into the chair. Sybil and Thomas were surprisingly strong and evenly matched, he noted; there was less awkwardness in the transition than he'd expected. After they'd settled him and gotten his feet up on the rests, Sybil tucked a blanket over his legs, pushing the edges around his thighs, and making sure his feet were covered.

"I don't feel cold," Matthew protested, hating the sense that he appeared an aged invalid.

"You're in your pyjamas, darling," Mary said, sitting down on the bed beside his chair.

He also didn't give a fig whether the entire place saw him in his pyjamas—what did anything matter, really? He was just another bit of debris—but he remained silent. With Robert standing watch, Matthew supposed it was something to do with the family's honour being at stake.

 _At least I'm no longer the heir. What an awful embarrassment_  that _would be_ , Matthew mused, taking a brief pleasure in his irrelevance.

"Bates will be by to dress you after lunch," Robert said. "He's out on an errand for me right now."

Matthew glowered at the great hall, which was visible beyond the sitting room doorway.  _I'm going to spend the rest of my life being dressed by someone else_ , he reminded himself, then felt a sour amusement.  _I suppose all the practice of enduring it before will come in handy after all._

"Thank you, Sybil," Mary said in a pointed tone, and Matthew frowned as he looked at her. She accepted a pitcher of water and a glass from Sybil, who nodded, smiled at Matthew, and then moved on to begin removing the rumpled sheets from a nearby bed.

"Will that be all, my lord?" Thomas asked.

"Yes, thank you, Sgt. Barrow," Robert replied.

Mary poured a glass of water and offered it to Matthew, who just frowned and looked away, so she took a sip, unperturbed, before setting it down on the bedside table.

Robert came round the bed. "It's so good to have you home again," he said to Matthew.

Matthew pressed his lips together and nodded, relaxing his frown slightly. As sour as his mood was, he didn't want to give Robert the impression that he wasn't grateful.

"Thank you, sir."

Robert's expression was uncertain, pained, and Matthew looked down at the bottom, unfastened button of the earl's waistcoat, which was at eye level. Matthew supposed that he'd be staring at it rather a lot now. He frowned.

Robert cleared his throat. "I'll see you at dinner tonight. I'm going—" He cut himself off, swallowed.  _I'm going to walk the estate_ , Matthew filled in. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Matthew nodded and Robert left. Matthew watched him go, unable to follow.

"Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic," Mary observed dryly.

Matthew glanced at her, irritated, but he saw sharp understanding in her eyes and he looked away again.

"I suppose you're going to push me around for a bit, leave me in a sunny spot to nap, and come collect me for lunch."

Mary clasped her hands lightly on her knee. "Of course not. You've got physiotherapy this morning. Your mother saw to the schedule personally."

He scowled. He didn't feel much like enduring a session of anything at the moment.

"I have good news," Mary said.

"Oh?"

"Mama and Papa have given us Granddad and Granny's old suite," Mary announced with a proud smile. "The rooms are on the first floor—Granddad couldn't go up the stairs those last few years—so they're perfect!"

Matthew frowned. "I thought all the bedrooms on the first floor were in use."

"The rest of them are, but not this suite: it's fit for an Earl and Countess, not for common use."

"I'm common," Matthew said. Mary's eyes flashed at him in annoyance.

"You're a member of the family," she answered, "and it's where we'll be living, so you might as well just accept it."

"Like everything else."

Mary glared at him. "Why do you insist on being so sour? You're home, you're alive, you're safe. You have a family that loves you and the promise of a life lived in luxury for the rest of your days. You'll want for nothing."

He snapped around to look at her, his eyes burning. " _Nothing?_  Really?"

She pressed her lips together, her eyes wide and suddenly filled with tears, and he saw that her anger had only been thin front for her pain, which he'd exposed without a second's thought. His frown deepened and he swallowed and looked away, feeling a right ass.

She rose to her feet, smoothing her dress. "I'll have Sybil come push your chair to a sunny spot," she said stiffly, and walked away, her back straight.

Matthew looked down at his lap, finally alone, but it was not a relief this time.

* * *

"Is Captain Crawley's blanket properly tucked?" a sneering voice asked as Thomas descended the stairs to the servants' hall. His head snapped up and he met the mocking eyes of O'Brien, who stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the end of the bannister. "We wouldn't want Lord Grantham's  _former_  heir to be served by anyone less than the  _best_."

He stiffened. "What's it to you?"

"What's it to  _you?_ " O'Brien shot back, an ugly little smile twisting the corner of her mouth. "You aren't His Lordship's footman now. There's naught to keep you at his beck and call when you answer to Major Clarkson." She stepped back as Thomas reached the bottom step. "I thought you don't do orderly work, seeing as you keep reminding us how high and mighty you are."

"I don't," he answered. "And it weren't for His Lordship's benefit. Like I said, Captain Crawley's a better man than most and I don't mind saying it. And I was the one who took delivery of his chair, so I knew where to fetch it."

O'Brien laughed. "Yes, waiting as you were outside the back door for half the morning."

Thomas pushed past her. "Don't you have a letter to answer? I'm sure His Lordship'll be pleased to hear you've had a hand in stirring up the pot again with Vera Bates."

O'Brien closed her mouth and glared at him as he smirked and left her behind.

* * *

After a wearying first session of physiotherapy and a lacklustre lunch in the great hall with the rest of the convalescing officers—most of whom could serve themselves, Matthew observed sourly—a nurse wheeled him into the library and left him near a window...to watch men walking the grounds, enjoying fresh air and exercise, some with their arms in slings or their heads bandaged. He was torn between appreciating the beauty of the late-summer scene and stewing because he couldn't be out in it.

Edith came by, offering to bring him a book or two, but Matthew declined. The popping volleys of a game of table tennis produced an irregular staccato of background noise that was just irritating enough to make concentration impossible, particularly when Matthew had no real interest in reading, anyway.

So he awaited Bates's return, still wearing pyjamas, a blanket draped over his legs. His life stretched out before him and he felt tired just contemplating it, but it wasn't a weariness that would allow him to nap in the warm sunlight, so he fell to staring at dust motes that floated by the window-frame and wondering when this miserable half-life would end.

A slight touch along the underside of his forearm made him twitch in surprise and he turned his head to see who it was.

Edward stood beside Matthew's chair, his small hand running along the armrest. His eyes were wide with delight and he reached down, reverently brushing his fingers over the spokes of the near wheel as he made a small "oh!" sound. He lifted his eyes to Matthew's, showing a face filled with wonder.

"Mama says I can't ride with the officers, but may I ride with you? You're my brother."

Matthew stared at the boy. Edward had grown so much since March! He was leaving toddlerhood behind, his features narrowing and his speech nearly devoid of babyish habits. The boy would be four in only a few months' time, Matthew realised, his heart squeezing at the years lost to this endless war.

"May I?" Edward repeated, bouncing in his excitement.

Matthew smiled, then frowned slightly as he took in the situation. "I'm not sure I can lift you on to my lap," he answered. "I'm still a bit weak."

"Oh, that's all right," Edward said, and he started scrambling up Matthew's blanket-covered legs. Matthew couldn't feel the pressure of Edward's small body, but he could feel how Edward was tugging on him to get leverage, so he quickly grasped the arms of the chair to give the boy a stable surface to climb on.

Edward clambered up into Matthew's lap and began laboriously—with Matthew's help, once he understood what the boy was trying to do—getting under Matthew's blanket with him.

Matthew suppressed a chuckle. Clearly, one was only supposed to ride in wheelchairs with a blanket over one's lap.

Once Edward had gotten the blanket arranged to his satisfaction, he wriggled, bumping back against Matthew's belly in his eagerness.

"Go! Go!" Edward commanded impatiently.

Matthew laughed and reached for the wheels. He'd never propelled himself in the chair before, but he was suddenly filled with a childish urge to go fast and get into trouble. His hands closed around the rims of the wheels—

"Edward!"

Cora's voice rang out from the doorway, shock and horror in her tone. The table tennis players startled and lost the rhythm of their volley, sending the ball bouncing across the room.

Cora rushed to Matthew's side. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry! Edward, get down from there this instant!"

She bent to lift her son from Matthew's lap and winced as she set Edward down, quickly trying to rearrange the fallen blanket around Matthew's legs. He took the edges from her and secured it around his hips as she continued murmuring her apologies.

"I'm sorry, Matthew! He must have escaped from Norris. Edward, I told you—!" Cora twisted, looking harried as she glanced around for the missing nanny. "I've a mountain of things to do right now, I can't possibly—"

"It's all right—" Matthew began, but Edward kicked Cora's ankle and she jumped and glared at him.

" _Edward!_ " she snapped. "Behave!"

"But I want to ride in Matthew's chair!" Edward whined.

"No," Cora answered. "It is not a toy. Matthew is..." She gave Matthew an uncomfortable glance and then a quick, concealing smile. "...recovering."

"Why can't I ride?" Edward demanded angrily. "Matthew said I could."

"No," Cora repeated, taking his hand and trying to draw him away.

"Really, it's no bother," Matthew said in a low voice, leaning towards them.

Edward twisted and tried to get his wrist free of his mother's grasp. "Let me! Let me go!"

"Edward!" Cora snapped, glancing around self-consciously at the roomful of officers, who were now watching the small drama playing out in the otherwise quiet library. "Stop this at once!"

Edward worked his hand free, collapsed on the floor in a dramatic heap, and began to wail. Matthew watched this sudden change of mood with some trepidation.

Cora straightened, her posture stiff and her mouth pulled down in displeasure. "Where is Norris?" she snapped.

Mrs Hughes rushed in with Norris close on her heels, flushed and breathless.

"Oh, Master Edward, there you are!" Norris exclaimed, crouching down beside Edward as Cora stepped back.

"I'm sorry, my lady," Mrs Hughes said. "I was speaking with Norris about the loose railing in the nursery and Edward took the opportunity to escape."

"Perhaps such matters should be discussed while he is napping, then," Cora responded flatly. Mrs Hughes gave a thin-lipped nod.

"I'm sorry, Your Ladyship," Norris said with a quick upward glance. "Master Edward, come now." Norris rubbed his back as his sobs subsided.

"Can I ride?" he asked with a trembling sniff, from under an elbow.

"No, not right now," Norris answered, catching Cora's frown. "But we can go out to the garden to look for snails and newts, would you like that?"

Edward sniffed. "And snakes?"

Cora shivered; Matthew smiled.

The corner of Norris's mouth tugged up. "If you like. But we must leave them outside in their homes this time."

Edward sat up with a pout. "But I want to ride in Matthew's chair."

"I'll tell you what," Matthew said, leaning down towards the boy. "After you find a snake, you come find me and you can tell me all about him." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I don't know where the best snakes are to be found on these grounds; I'll need you to remember and tell me most carefully."

Edward got to his feet, blinking away his tears. His eyes and cheeks were reddened, but he smiled.

"All right." He took Norris's outstretched hand. "Can I sit on your lap when I tell you?"

Matthew chuckled. "Yes," he answered firmly, his eyes flickering up to Cora's, but she made no protest. She was watching him with a curious expression. He looked back down at Edward. "Now, you be a good chap and obey your mama and your nanny, do you hear?"

Edward nodded and sniffed, then followed Norris when she gently tugged his hand. The nanny gave Matthew a grateful nod before leading Edward across the room, Mrs Hughes on their heels. As they approached, Bates stood aside at the doorway to let them pass, then came into the library.

"Thank you for your patience," Cora said to Matthew. "Please don't let him be a bother."

"He isn't, at all," Matthew replied. "Truly." He looked at the empty doorway, surprised by how much he looked forward to seeing Edward again. "He's grown so much."

Cora followed his gaze with a wistful expression. "Sometimes he still seems a miracle." Pressing her lips together, she gave Matthew a polite smile. "Well, I must be going. I wish I could stay and talk, but I've a thousand things to do."

"Of course," Matthew said. Cora turned and strode by Bates, who gave her a nod as she passed.

"My lady," the valet murmured. He approached Matthew, looking him squarely in the face without any of the usual flickering glances of discomfort that Matthew was growing accustomed to receiving. "It's good to have you back home, if I may say so, sir."

Matthew gave him a tight smile. "Bates."

"I've drawn you a bath and I have your uniform pressed and ready."

Matthew swallowed. The thought of sinking into a tub of hot water  _was_  appealing. It had been too long. "Thank you, Bates."

The valet's eyes crinkled up in a genuine smile and he stepped behind the chair, hooking his stick over his wrist as he took the chair handles.

"Lady Mary has done a lovely job updating your new apartments, sir," Bates said, wheeling Matthew out of the library, past the once-again-active game of table tennis. "Everything possible has been done to ensure your comfort."

Matthew nodded, frowning, and rocked with the chair as it bumped over the threshold and Bates pushed him out into the great hall.

* * *

Bates limped over to the bedside with a slight frown as he laid out Mr Matthew's pyjamas and double-checked that he had all of the necessary supplies. Getting his charge ready for bed was going to require a significant adjustment in his evening schedule, if he were going be able to complete the process and still get to Lord Grantham by the time His Lordship usually retired. Bates stood back and glanced around the room. Towels, spare bags, changing cloths, disinfectant...

He felt a hand drift lightly over his shoulder and down his back, and he smiled and turned.

"You look worried," Anna observed, reaching up to rub his shoulder a moment. He shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned against the bedpost with a small sigh, closing his eyes. She always seemed to know exactly where the knot was.

"It's a lot to do," Bates answered.

"His Lordship will understand if you're a bit delayed this evening," Anna said, still working at his shoulder with her strong hands.

"I know." Bates drew in a deep breath and straightened, transferring his stick back to his right hand, and Anna stopped her massage. "But I expect this first evening will be particularly challenging. Mr Matthew does what he can, but he's taking it very hard. And he's not strong yet."

"Ask someone to help you," Anna suggested, frowning slightly. "I don't want you putting your back out."

Bates smirked at her. "My back is just fine."

Anna looked as though she wanted to embrace him, but she limited herself to giving him a warm smile, her eyes twinkling as she drew a step closer. "I know it is. But don't overexert yourself. You're not a young man any more."

"Why, Miss Smith, are you calling me  _old?_ "

"Only when there's no one around to hear us." Anna grinned.

Bates pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. How he wanted to kiss her! But they must wait until they were both free at the end of the evening. He settled for briefly running a hand down her upper arm and smiling.

"I'm so glad you're back under the same roof," he said, putting as much warmth into his voice as he could manage, and he was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

"Oh, yes," she replied with a happy sigh. "Seeing you throughout the day instead of just on Sundays and late in the evening!"

He nodded. "I'm sorry; I've been busy running errands for His Lordship this week, and I was tired. The walk to Crawley House..."

"Shh, I know. I'm not upset."

"The last day we spent any length of time together was at William and Daisy's wedding—" Bates cut himself off and frowned, swallowing. Anna's face had fallen as well, and she drew in a deep breath as she reached out to take his hand briefly, squeezing it. He nodded and looked away, and she released him.

After a moment, he said, "We're safe. We've got the  _decree nisi_. I'm sure it's all right."

"Except you're not sure."

Bates frowned. "I can't be. Not until it's absolutely final. January is so far off."

Anna nodded.

He grit his teeth and shook his head. "I just can't shake the feeling that she's planning something. Vera won't go without a fight."

Anna took his hand again. "We are going to be together, whether she wants it or not. If we have to leave here, if we have to leave the country, we are going to be together."

Bates turned and squeezed her hand, giving her a grateful smile. "I love you, Anna Smith."

"And I love you, John Bates." She straightened, releasing him. "Now, are you done in here? I've finished putting Mr Matthew's kerchiefs in his bedside table and I just need to fetch the books that Lady Mary requested for him."

Bates tilted his head in surprise. "I thought you were putting those in here." He gestured at the bedside table near him.

Anna frowned. "What? Why? They always share a bed, you know that."

Bates shook his head. "No, Mr Matthew specifically requested that this bed be prepared for him."

Anna lifted her head in a slow nod, still frowning. Her expression settled into one of sadness and she stepped away as Bates sighed and looked down. He understood only too well the urge to isolate oneself when one was a cripple. He still marvelled that a woman as young and lovely as Anna would show the slightest interest in him, never mind the fierce devotion and angelic patience she demonstrated daily. How he had come to deserve her, he would never know, but he was so grateful for her calm and sensible presence. He watched her disappear into the master bedroom and he turned to check his preparations one last time.

There was a curt knock on the door and Carson stepped in.

"Mr Bates," the butler said, "Captain Crawley wishes to retire early. He's in the dining room with His Lordship."

Bates nodded and followed Carson out.

* * *

Mary lay trapped, paralyzed, in a dark bedroom with red walls—her old bedroom? She couldn't be sure, for she couldn't turn her head—and she felt a presence open the door. A shadowed figure, a man, was entering the room! His dark hair and olive skin, his movements, even his satin dressing gown were so awful in their familiarity that she wanted to scream, but she could no more scream now than she could before!

He was coming! He was coming closer! He was going to weigh her down, a dead weight, trapping her underneath him! She thrashed madly, but her limbs wouldn't respond and the dark eyes glittered in the dead face—

She cried out in desperation.  _Matthew! Matthew!_

Matthew was her husband, she was his wife now. He would save her from this ghoul—

—but then she remembered that Matthew could not save her. He was in the other room—could he even hear her cries? Her throat was raw but there was no sound coming out except shrill, wordless moans— _and he could not walk now._

She cried out at the image of him dragging himself across the floor to reach her. No! She could not do this to him. He must not be allowed to know of her fear and pain—

The dark figure climbed on to the bed! The laughing horror, the weight, she would be trapped!

She could not help it; she screamed.  _Oh God, oh God, noooooo—!_

* * *

Mary awoke and flung her eyes open. Her heart was pounding and she trembled, her skin cold with sweat. The sheets were tangled around her legs. She sat up with a gasp, reassuring herself that she was alone in the room.

_She was alone._

She fell to her side on the bed, exhausted, and sobbed.

* * *

Matthew roused from a fitful sleep, frowning and blinking. Something had awakened him.

He heard muffled sobs and froze as he listened.  _Mary._

His arms tightened convulsively around the pillow. Why did she want to share his bed now? He couldn't fathom it. Wasn't she repulsed by what she saw? By what was dead to her touch?

But if he were beside her now, he might be able to hold her, or rub her back, or just listen if she wanted to speak. His arms ached to embrace her and he wished he had the words to reassure her, the belief that it would all turn out well.

_And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose._

Matthew squeezed his eyes closed. The old verses he'd memorised still echoed in his mind, stabbing him in their own way. He missed being able to pray, to have a recourse when he felt helpless, but he couldn't pretend faith. He wished for it, but he was powerless to create it. The ache in his chest widened and it hurt to swallow. He couldn't sleep now.

Another faint sob reached his ears as he opened his eyes. He used to ask for something simple for Mary, something he knew would do her good even when he didn't know exactly what she needed, or how best to help her find it. When he knew he was inadequate.

_Draw her close to You._

Would it hurt to ask, one last time? He couldn't take any comfort in believing it would be heard, or that it would do any good, but he wouldn't be doing it for himself. He would do it for her.

He whispered the words and felt gutted out, hollow, an aching grief wrenching through him. He groaned, pulling the pillow down with him as he curled more tightly into a foetal position, until his elbows bumped into the second pillow that was between his knees.

It was all gone; he was a dead weight on the outside and a mere shell on the inside, empty where once he had felt full.

The loss of faith hurt even more deeply than the loss of half his body, because it meant the loss of hope, the loss of trust that there was meaning even in suffering, and the loss of belief in his own worth. At the core of his grief was the loss of a deep Friendship that he'd once enjoyed and taken comfort in; the sense of being utterly known and still loved.

The emptiness swallowed him whole as he lay in the dark, with not even the distant, faint sounds of Mary's sobs to keep him company any longer. She had subsided, leaving him alone, only a shell of a soul in pain.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Matthew lay awake, staring at the faint grey outlines of the ceiling. He'd known this was a bad idea; he never should have allowed them to go through with it. He knew he should pull himself to the side of the bed and reach for the bell cord, but Mary was curled against his side, fast asleep, her steady breathing his only anchor in the darkness. Waking her was out of the question.

So he lay in his own mess, self-revulsion curling through him, sickening him and filling him with a deeper blackness than any he'd yet felt.

Some distant part of his mind told him that he ought to pray, to fight despair, but the blackness that filled him had no edges, nothing he could grasp at to peel it aside far enough to feel anything. He didn't hate God; he didn't have enough left for that. But he sure as hell wasn't going through the motions of piety for…what? What would wishful thinking gain him?

_Nothing._

Nothing.

He was nothing, now. Just a burden, a curse. Not only no longer able to control his own bodily functions, but not even capable of cleaning up his own mess. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he choked back the burn in his eyes and throat.

He heard Mary's breathing shift slightly and he caught himself, holding his breath.  _He must not wake her._

He mentally kicked himself. That choke had been audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no relief to be found there. He opened them again immediately, returning to the formless grey of the ceiling above him.

She shifted in her sleep, her movements against his torso warm and torturous. He remembered what it felt like to fill her warm, wet depths, to lose himself in the pleasure of her embrace. He remembered her head thrown back, her dark hair splayed against the pillow, her lips open and her eyes closed, her breasts unbound, for his eyes to freely feast on. He remembered running his hand along her flank, lifting her leg—

He swallowed back another threat of sick, now mixed nauseatingly with these sweet memories of his wife—he didn't want these memories of her tainted! They were all he had left, all he would ever have. He swallowed hard and tried to push the thoughts away, but the more he resisted, the more the sensations flooded him. Their reality was attenuated—they were no more than distant memories—but they were at the same time maddeningly heightened by phantoms of his imagination. There was nothing in the grey darkness to distract him from this conflicting hell, no escape to be found.

Her breath drifted over his skin, across the neckline of his pyjamas, and he clung to the sensation. He clung to her presence, focused on her breathing, waited for her next breath…there. His arm tightened around her and he fought back tears. He'd cycled through these thoughts for what felt like hours and he was exhausted from trying to fight them. God, he hated this. He hated it.

There was no relief from the agonizingly slow passage of time. Matthew resolved that this would be the last night, the only night, that he slept with her. He could not do this again. He'd thought he could make it through the night without needing to ring for Bates or a nurse, but then  _this_  had happened. It rarely, if ever, happened at night for him normally, but his body was far from normal now. He used to be able to fall asleep easily, but he never slept much anymore, only falling into unconsciousness from the sheer exhaustion of just  _being_  and then waking, unrested. There might not be any relief from this hell for him, but he would not drag her into it as well. It was easier for him to lie—or sit—through the dark hours alone, imagining that she was sleeping peacefully somewhere else, away from him and his curse. After all, he hadn't heard her crying again since that first night.

Mary drifted into a sleepy half-awareness and smiled as she felt her husband's chest rise and fall, the cotton of his pyjama shirt soft against her skin. Her head was still resting in the hollow of his shoulder and her arm was draped across his stomach. He was warm. It was so nice to be able to sleep beside him again. She'd missed him terribly.

She shifted her leg further across his, starting to settle back down again, and then sighed. She had to use the bathroom. As she roused herself and began to sit up, she stopped and frowned, sniffing. What was that terrible smell? It was more pervasive than—

She drew in a sudden breath as she realised what it must be, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest when she saw Matthew turn his face away from her. She couldn't see perfectly in the darkness, but she could see well enough to notice how stiff and uncomfortable he seemed. She felt awful for not having roused sooner.

"Oh, my darling! How long have you—?"

Matthew groaned in response and covered his face with his hand. A moment later, when she was sat all the way up, he pulled back the arm that had been underneath her and started to push himself away, to roll himself towards the edge of the bed and the bell cord. His lower half was a dead weight that kept the cord just out of reach and Mary's heart clenched as she watched him turn back to pull his leg over. She quickly fought back the urge to cry and she put a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Never mind that," she said.

Matthew turned his head back partway. "Bates will—"

"It's the middle of the night, Matthew." Her voice was steady, she was glad to hear. "We're not going to wake up any member of the household without good reason."

He snarled. "This  _is_  good reason! You won't be able to sleep like this and I'm absolutely  _not_  going to let you—"

"How are you going to stop me?" she asked, smiling despite herself.

"Mary!"

"Yes, Matthew?"

He flopped back on to the bed in frustration. "No. Call a nurse."

"We don't need a nurse. They have patients to tend to." She slipped lightly off the bed. She knew where Bates kept all the supplies, in the cupboard outside the bathroom.

"Mary!" Matthew called after her in a harsh whisper, as she disappeared into the bathroom to relieve herself.

She emerged a short while later and approached the bed. Matthew lay silently in the darkness, scowling, she was sure. She had to resist the urge to laugh, which she knew he would not appreciate. He took himself too seriously sometimes, but now was not a moment to poke fun at him: he was too raw. The truth of their situation remained a painful one, but one she had decided to accept with equanimity. Pitying herself was a waste of time, and humouring his black moods was wearying. She'd decided the right approach was to face their new reality and make the best of it. Matthew still had a full life ahead of him, even if he wasn't able to see it yet. She knew it would take time for his mind and heart to heal, but she wished she could help him along in some way.

She switched on the bedside light and Matthew hissed, covering his eyes with one hand.

"Sorry," Mary said.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this?"

"Not a chance." She brought the small pail into the bathroom to fill it with warm water from the faucet, then came out and placed a cloth on the bedside table and set the pail upon it. She turned down the covers and, after collecting the necessary linens and balm, she climbed on to the bed.

Matthew looked sceptically at her supplies. "Are you sure you know what to do?"

"Of course," Mary answered absently, glancing around. She realised that she had forgotten the basin for the dirty linens. She slid off the bed and brought it back a moment later.

Matthew frowned. "I hadn't thought it part of your responsibilities at the hospital."

"Oh, it's not," Mary replied, gesturing with her hands for him to roll away from her. As he complied, sighing, she worked an arm under his waist, careful not to let her fingernails catch on his skin. Even if he couldn't feel it, she didn't want to scratch him. She braced herself and lifted him with a small grunt, quickly working the waistband of his pyjama bottoms down around his hips before she lost the strength to hold him up. He helped as best he could, but given the way he was clenching his jaw, he was in no small amount of pain. She shifted the fabric quickly and lowered him back down, pulling her arm out from under him. He dropped to his pillow with a groan, rolling on to his back as he did.

"Then how—?" he asked, his voice sounding strained.

She pulled his pyjama trousers down, lifting his legs as she went, careful not to tug on the catheter line strapped down the length of one of them. "This isn't the first time I've done this," she replied, keeping her tone light.

"It's not? But you said…"

She left the trousers around his ankles, trapped in place by the line that ran down into his bedside bag, and turned back to him. He closed his eyes as she worked open the fastenings of his nappy.

"Oh, I haven't done this for anyone else," she said.

His eyes flew open and he stared at her. "What?"

She wet a couple cloths and draped them on the edge of the pail, then pulled the nappy open. She didn't grimace, he noted. In fact, he almost felt calm watching the matter-of-factness in her expression. Almost. Revulsion curled in his stomach.

She placed a hand on his hip and gestured with her chin for him to turn away from her. "Roll again?"

He sighed again and complied, accepting his knee when she gently pushed it up for him to hold. He set its dead weight down on the mattress in front him and winced from the slight strain the new position put on his back. He was accustomed to the humiliation of this procedure, but he was surprised by her calm acceptance of it.

"What did you mean, 'anyone else'?" he asked, trying to distract himself with conversation.

"Who do you think took care of you when they first brought you back from the front?" she asked.

He frowned. He hadn't really thought about it. He'd just assumed the nurses had. But Mary? The thought had never crossed his mind. Even Sybil, for all of her attentiveness to his other needs, had never taken care of these most private ones. It was always some anonymous, stern-faced woman, thankfully. That had been humiliation enough.

"You?" he repeated. "But you never—"

"Not after you woke up," she said. He heard cloths splash in water again. "I didn't think you'd let me."

The black humour in him echoed the smile he heard in her voice, but his own voice was bitter. "You were right."

He frowned at the shadows on the floor as he imagined Mary caring for him while he was unconscious.

"Why does it matter?" she asked.

How could she ask such a thing?

She apparently took his stony silence for an answer, because she continued: "I'm your  _wife_ , Matthew. I could hardly shirk my responsibility!"

"Your responsibility," he echoed derisively.

"'…for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish…'" she quoted.

He blinked. It was a beautiful sentiment, but he hadn't expected her to hold to it quite so thoroughly. After all, a woman of her station could expect to have servants for such distasteful tasks. His frowned deepened. When they'd made their vows, he'd never intended to hold her to something like  _this_. He'd envisioned growing old beside her, having her tuck a blanket around his legs when they were both at an age when doing that sort of thing became necessary.  _Normal_  sickness…not  _this_. This wasn't a proper marriage any more. It couldn't be.

They had been properly married for far too short a time, despite having begun the marriage almost four years earlier. He could count on two hands the number of times that he'd been home on leave, for God's sake. Why had she married him, knowing what an idiot he was being leaving her behind, and for what? He'd thought he was doing the right thing, fighting for King and Country, but what had four years in the trenches achieved? The war still wasn't over and after a while, it was hard to remember just what they were fighting  _for_. It just lingered interminably over everything like a cancer, the lines moving back and forth in the cold and the mud, a few hundred feet at a time, at the cost of thousands of lives. The whole thing was a bloody waste of time. Time that he should have spent with his wife, raising a family. A family… After all this time and no sign of a pregnancy, Matthew had wondered, in his darkest moments in the trenches, if it was because there was something wrong with him.

The shadow inside of him laughed.

There was no doubt of that  _now_.

He would give her a divorce, he reminded himself. She was still young and had her whole life before her. With her beauty, wealth, and position, she would have no trouble finding a more suitable husband, someone who could give her a secure future, children, and possibly even a title. It was what she deserved. She didn't deserve to be chained to a cripple with no prospects. He would claim that he had been unfaithful on his leaves—although he'd been mocked for never bedding a prostitute while in Paris, but no one here knew that—and that he had mistreated her.

If  _this_  wasn't mistreatment, he didn't know what was, the shadow observed.

At least his legal training would be useful for something now. He started composing the opening paragraphs of the divorce petition, to distract himself from the way she was shifting his body in her movements behind him. He couldn't feel a damn thing of what she was actually doing, but she had shifted him forward a little, probably to reach a new piece of—

 _Concerning the matrimonial dissolution of Lady Mary Josephine Crawley, Petitioner, and Matthew Reginald Crawley, Respondent, in the District Court of the County of York, West Riding, herein follows the Original Petition of Divorce. To the honourable judge of the aforementioned Court: the following suit is presented by the Petitioner, who is_ — Matthew had to think for a moment, — _27 years of age, residing in Downton, County of York (W.R.). Respondent is 33 years of age, residing in Downton, County of York (W.R.). Petitioner has been the domiciliary of_ —

"I noticed that you didn't object when I left out 'obey'," Mary said.

Matthew blinked, confused, and then he recalled their conversation: the marriage vows. Against all reason, a short, disbelieving laugh rose out of him. He didn't want to feel humour in this moment, but it was too late. She'd made him smile. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I wouldn't dare," he replied, annoyed. "To be honest, I wasn't completely sure you would say it during the ceremony."

Mary laughed. He opened his eyes. The sound made him want to cry, but he didn't know why.

"I'm glad to hear it. I should hate to be predictable." She chuckled, then sighed. "I'd always disliked how unequal the vows were. Travis never had a satisfactory reply when I asked him about it as a child." She moved away behind him, then returned. "But when the day came for me to say them, I realised…I trusted you. You would never demand that I do something that wasn't in my best interests."

He couldn't stop himself. "Like this?"

She sighed. "You didn't demand this, Matthew. It was forced on you against your will, but in  _your_  best interests."

He made a disbelieving noise.

"Besides," she said. "Who's to say that this isn't in my best interests? Wasn't I a bit arrogant and self-absorbed when we first met? Don't you prefer this me to that one?"

He gave a soft snort of acknowledgement, but then: "No one deserves this punishment, Mary."

"Of course not," she said. "But this isn't a punishment to me."

Matthew felt the bed shift behind him and he turned his head to look down at his body. Mary had finished her cleaning and was laying a new nappy out behind him.

"Should I roll back?" he asked.

"In a moment," she said. He looked away as she dabbed at one more spot and then he heard her say, "Now."

He rolled on to his back and stared fixedly at the ceiling as she cleaned something more. She left that cloth in the basin and returned to fasten one side. Then he heard her mutter, "Stupid—" under her breath. He looked down quickly and saw that she was drawing her hand away from his hip and moving it down to his knee. "Roll towards me?" she prompted.

"What's stupid?" he asked, dragging himself towards her until he was lying on his side and fixing his gaze on the bedside lamp behind her as she shifted his legs and started fastening the other side.

"Nothing."

"Mary."

She sighed. "I forgot. I tried to ask you to roll towards me by just tugging on your hip. Stupid."

A thick, black feeling welled up in his throat and he kept staring at the lamp.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The black feeling made his throat sore. "You have  _nothing_  to be sorry for," he bit out.

Her hand rested on his hair and he closed his eyes, wanting to twitch away but having nowhere to go. "Don't, please," he said. "Just finish."

"All right."

Her hand lifted away and he felt the bed shift repeatedly. After a while, he felt her tugging at him; she'd finally worked the pyjama bottoms up high enough on his legs that his torso was being shifted as she lifted his thighs.

"I think this'll be easiest if you're on your back again," she said. Her voice held a note that he couldn't place and he opened his eyes to look at her. He pushed the question away and focused on helping her raise his body enough to work the pyjamas up around his hips again. She grunted quietly and then nodded and he let himself drop to the bed, his arms and shoulders and stomach—as much of it as he could feel—aching from the effort.

Without a word, she climbed off the bed and set about clearing away the soiled linens and returning the remaining supplies to the cupboard. He heard the water running and then she emerged from the bathroom. After all her exertions, wisps of hair had come loose from her braid. In fact, her cheeks had some colour in them and he thought she looked so lovely—

He closed his eyes and turned away. "I can't do this to you," he said. "I'm releasing you."

She sighed as she sat on the edge of the bed and she looked at him, exasperated. "We've been through this already, Matthew."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"Then it's settled."

"Like hell it is," she shot back. He turned back to her in shock. He'd never heard her speak so crudely before. "I promised," she said, in a softer voice.

"I'm not holding you to that promise!"

" _I_  am."

" _Mary!_ "

She arched an eyebrow. "Matthew?"

He slammed his fist on to the edge of the mattress beside him.

"Did I do it poorly? Did I hurt you?" she asked quickly.

"Of course not," he answered.

"You looked like you were in pain."

"I'm  _always_  in pain, Mary."

She was silent for a long moment.

"Then why?" she finally asked. "And don't tell me that I have my whole life ahead of me and I'd be better off with someone else, because I don't  _want_  to be with someone else!"

He threw an arm over his eyes, weary, hiding the burn behind them. The weight was a small relief. "Why ever not?" he asked hoarsely. "You're  _Lady Mary Crawley_ , for God's sake! Who am I, besides a dead weight?"

Mary growled in frustration. She hated his black moods. He was so irrational; it was impossible to reason with him.

But he wasn't finished. He pulled his arm back and gestured at his legs. "I can't be a proper country solicitor in a wheelchair! Can you imagine me trying to wheel myself into some rutted farmyard with a briefcase in my lap?" He gave a bitter laugh and dropped his arm to the bed. "I can't provide for you, I can't give you children, I can't even make love to you! What could you possibly get out of this marriage?"

"As long as you insist on being hopeless, very little," she replied. "But if you can manage not to give up, if you can hold on to that God you claimed you so deeply believed in, then I expect a long and joyful life together."

He scowled at the ceiling.

"I'm not telling you to  _feel_  hope, Matthew. I'm telling you to  _choose_  it, despite everything."

He still scowled.

"Do you want to know when I realised I loved you more than anything else?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, but she could tell he was listening.

"It was after I chose to confess everything about Mr Pamuk to you, not knowing what you would do, but expecting you to reject me. Instead, you forgave me and proposed again right away. You exceeded my wildest expectations."

"I didn't forgive you," he corrected.

She smiled. "I know that's what you said, but yes, you did. You forgave me so thoroughly that you helped me to begin to forgive myself."

At this, he turned to look at her. "Really?"

She thought she saw his eyes glisten in the low light. She smiled.

"Yes, really."

He regarded her in silence for a long moment, and then his features lightened. He didn't smile, but it was a start.

"I'm not going to leave you," she said, "and before you start scowling at me again, stop and think about how you'd respond if our positions were reversed."

He frowned at her. Technically, it wasn't scowling.

"You shouldn't stay on your back for the rest of the night," she said in a businesslike tone. "Side instead?"

He sighed, nodding. He hated being told how to sleep—or rather, how not to sleep—but bedsores were a very real concern. He had already begun to resign himself to a life of being incessantly shifted about by other people. He turned away and she helped him to bend and move his legs and get his pillow settled.

"Comfortable?" she asked.

"Well enough."

She crawled down the bed and tugged the covers back up over him, then leaned out to turn off the bedside lamp.

The room was plunged into darkness, which Matthew expected to offer him some degree of comfort, or at least some privacy, where he could have his own thoughts without her watching them run rampant across his face. Thankfully, she hadn't protested when he'd chosen to sleep facing away from her. After what she had just done for him, what he craved was privacy. He wanted to remember what it was like not to need someone to wipe his ass for him, but he could only do that in the dark, when he was still. Then, for a few fleeting moments, he could forget.

That was what he expected, his usual ritual after Bates extinguished the lights and closed the door, but Mary didn't know that. She wasn't Bates; she didn't leave. She didn't even pull the covers up over herself and go to sleep beside him, as Matthew had thought she would. No, instead he felt her fingers in his hair and he gasped. Her touch dragged him back into the present, evoking both a painful reminder of his loss and an exquisitely pleasant ache to feel more of the comfort her fingers offered. The longer her soft stroking continued, the more the sense of comfort took over, and he finally let his eyes slide closed to focus on her movements. She sat, leaning against him from behind, her arm braced gently against his upper back. She ran her fingers through his hair for a short while longer and then she moved them down from his hairline on to his brow. He felt her knuckles kneading the tense muscles in his forehead and he acquiesced to her, allowing them to relax under her massage. He felt her hum in appreciation and after a few more strokes, she ran her fingers back up into his hair again. He sighed; he couldn't help it.

Her fingers lifted away and her lips brushed against his temple before she returned to gently working at his scalp. Her kiss didn't evoke all the old sensations, but her touch was comforting and pleasant, nonetheless. He still felt the yawning blackness that no amount of her physical comfort could banish, but he was glad, for the first time that night, that he was not alone in the dark. After a while, she pulled away from his hair again and he felt her rest her hand on his shoulder as she leaned down. Her lips brushed his cheek, his ear, and then she said, "Good night, my beautiful sea monster."

He silently choked on a laugh and then everything  _hurt_. "Don't joke—" he tried to say. "I can't—"

Mary frowned down at him in the darkness, caught off-guard by the harshness of his tone. He'd finally seemed to be relaxing. She doubted he'd slept much all night, but she'd been hoping that after this, he might—

She realised that his shoulder was shaking under her hand and she leaned over him, suddenly worried. His whole torso was shuddering.

"Matthew?" she asked, panicking. Was this some kind of seizure? She tried to remember what Sybil had told her to do— And then Mary heard him sob and she instantly felt a mixture of relief and pain. She huddled over him, trying to hold him in her embrace without leaning too much of her weight on him. He cringed and pressed his face into the mattress beside his pillow, but she wouldn't let him pull away when he tried.

"Oh God…" he moaned, his voice high and strained, so unlike his usual timbre.

She held him tightly as his frame shook in her arms and she listened to him cry. She didn't try to shush him or convince him that everything would be all right. She didn't say anything or do anything at all to distract him; she just held him and closed her eyes. She'd already cried herself out in the intervening weeks since he'd returned, so her eyes remained dry now. She felt she had strength to share.

Eventually, when his sobs began to quieten, she pulled away to find a clean cloth to use as a handkerchief, which she laid over his hands for him to take. She ran her palm over his back in comforting circles, careful to stay above the area where he lost sensation.

After he dried his face and blew his nose, he reached up and grasped her hand, still resting on his shoulder. "My storm-braver," he whispered.

She gave a soft laugh. "Gale-force winds this time?"

His shoulders shook in a weary laugh. "I love you, Mary."

"I love you, too," she answered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, my lady."

She slapped his shoulder lightly. "I told you not to call me that! You're a member of the family!"

" _I_  didn't promise to obey," he shot back, unable to stop the grin that pulled at his lips.

She felt a curl of arousal at the playful, teasing tone in his voice and she blinked. She hadn't expected to feel that with him again. She expected lifelong friendship and companionship, with any of those needs attended to quietly, alone. She'd thought she was at peace with this prospect, but in this moment she realised she didn't want to cut him out of this part herself. She had no idea what he wanted, however, and she couldn't possibly broach the topic with him. Not now. She knew it pained him to have lost such a vital part of himself and she would not wound him again by bringing it up for entirely selfish reasons.

Matthew twisted slightly to look at her in the darkness, frowning. He'd expected a quick rejoinder, but when none had come… "What's wrong?"

He heard her sigh as she patted his shoulder. "It's nothing. Good night, my love."

She settled down under the covers, no longer touching him. Something was definitely not right. Despite his earlier desire to face away from her, he now felt compelled to find out what had happened. He twisted on to his back and pushed himself up enough to pull at his leg as he tried to shift himself on to his other side, facing her. His movements were awkward and he bumped into her more than once.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding worried.

"Trying to roll over," he grunted.

Mary immediately sat up and helped him move his legs. "Careful! Careful," she said. "Let me just make sure—" She rose up and checked the tape on his abdomen, then stretched over him, pulling back the bottom of the covers near his feet to make sure that the catheter line wasn't under tension. It was imperative that it not be pulled out, not just to avoid the possible mess, but to prevent infection. Sybil had instructed Mary most carefully on this point. Satisfied, Mary replaced the covers and sat back.

"Everything in order?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "You should have asked me for help."

"I have to learn how to do this for myself, you know."

"Yes, but you don't have to do it all tonight. The physio will get you there soon enough." She made sure that none of his clothing was twisted too tightly around him. "Comfortable?"

"Yes." He was settled on his side, facing her now, one arm bent under his pillow. "Thank you."

She lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin, closing her eyes.

"Well?" he asked, after a long moment of silence.

"Well what?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Who said anything is bothering me?"

"The fact that you suddenly quietened," he replied.

"I'm tired, Matthew."

"Is that really all?"

She sighed and opened her eyes. She'd promised him at the very beginning to always be honest with him. She just didn't want to hurt him.

"It can wait," she said, giving in slightly.

"What can?"

She gave a short laugh. "Matthew!"

She could practically feel him smiling in the darkness. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her own mouth. She'd missed sparring with him in bed; she'd missed the way that he managed to gently work his way under all her defences and yet leave her feeling warm and safe when she'd expected to feel exposed instead. It had always made her want to kiss him and curl up against him afterwards in thanks, which was exactly what she couldn't do right now. Her body was too aroused already.

She needed distance, to wait until the desire tapered off. At the beginning of the night, she hadn't responded to his presence like this, so she'd thought she would get through their first night sleeping together without being distracted by desire for him. A part of her had muted itself when she'd been told that he had lost his virility. The cold feeling had begun before she'd even received official word of his injury, and somewhere in the meantime the cold feeling had silently transmuted itself numbness. She was still a woman with certain basic desires, but Matthew had always been able to evoke something more in her, and the thought of trying to rediscover it without him held no appeal. She felt almost guilty for even contemplating it.

But she couldn't possibly tell him any of this. He seemed to have just begun to turn a corner and revealing this would be a cruel blow that could send him back into a black mood.

"Trust me, Mary, please."

She looked at him. "I  _do_  trust you! It's not a matter of trust. I'm trying to avoid causing you pain."

"I'll stay awake worrying for the rest of the night."

She snorted. "Blackmail won't work."

"It's not blackmail, it's true."

She shook her head.

"Hmm," he said. "Let's see. Something that makes you no longer want to touch me, something that you can't tell me about because it might hurt me…"

Mary closed her eyes, knowing it was pointless to resist. "Matthew."

"Ah," he said, a kind of finality in his voice. "I see."

And from his tone, she knew he did. She relented. "I miss you," she whispered.

He was silent for a long moment, and then he asked conversationally, "How long has it been for you?"

She felt heat flush her cheeks; she had never felt comfortable talking about this sort of thing, not even with him. Speaking wordlessly with her body presented no challenge, but actually  _naming_  anything? She shied away from it. He had no such compunctions and found her reluctance amusing, but he never pressed her on it. She decided to make use of this and deflect.

"Six months," she answered. That was when he'd last been home on leave.

He laughed. "So, a while, I take it."

She sighed, giving in. "Since a little before you came home."

"Mary, that was nearly a month ago."

"Your point?"

"You need to take care of yourself. I hope you've not been abstaining on my account."

"Of  _course_  I've been abstaining on your account, Matthew!"

"We talked about this: there's nothing wrong with meeting your body's needs when we're apart."

"I know that. That wasn't why."

"Then what is it?"

Mary frowned, thinking. She was reluctant to voice what she found. He waited.

She sighed. "I'm…not sure. I haven't felt myself, really."

"You've been unwell? Have you spoken to Clarkson?"

"No, it's not like that. It's…" she squeezed her eyes shut. How to describe it? The words that came to her sounded too melodramatic. She searched for something more reasonable, but nothing came. She sighed again. "It's as if…some part of me…went away…when…some part of you did. And to…do that…I would feel guilty, somehow."

She heard him exhale in the darkness, and then his hand slid on to her stomach and rested there, warm. "You don't need to feel guilty, Mary. It's not your fault."

She placed her own hand on top of his. "I know that. But I—it just—it's not the same without you."

His arm couldn't quite reach across her, but she felt his palm tug gently on her belly. "Come here," he said.

She  _did_  want to snuggle against him and he was willing, so she let him tug her closer. She shifted to lie beside him, still on her back, and now his arm lay across her torso in a loose embrace.

"What do you want?" he asked, his thumb beginning to stroke against the side of her breast through her nightgown.

"No," she protested, starting to pull away, but his arm tightened around her and his mouth was suddenly beside her ear.

"If you really want me to let you go, I will," he said, his hot breath tickling her ear and stirring up new curls of arousal as his low voice vibrated through her. "But I don't think you want me to. You wanted to share my bed. Why do you think you can resist me now when you couldn't before?"

God, something  _squeezed_  at his words, and she pressed her eyes closed.

"You have a very high opinion of yourself," she muttered, trying to stay aloof.

He just gave a low laugh and his breath ran over her neck. "Tell me I'm wrong. Be honest." His lips closed over her earlobe and then released it. His tongue traced the sensitive edges of her ear and then darted briefly inside.

She gasped. "Not—fair."

He laughed again. She was clutching at his arm; she let it go. He pressed a soft kiss against her neck and pulled back, releasing her.

"I meant what I said: if you want me to stop, I will."

Her heart was beating faster than before. She let it pound in her chest and noted the matching pulses that echoed further down. She wanted this, but she didn't want to do something that they would regret later. "Why are you doing this, Matthew? You don't have to. If it's too soon—"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't want this to be something that it's not."

"Such as?"

Mary searched for the right words. What was she afraid of? "An escape? You trying to prove yourself?"

He lay in silence beside her for a long moment and then asked, "Would it be so bad if it were those things?"

She frowned at the ceiling.

"Mary, this is going to be long and difficult. I know that. But you held me just now and by the end of it, I felt relief. It's not perfect. It's far from over. But it's the first time since I woke up in hospital that I haven't been completely under a, a—" he gestured with the hand that rested on her stomach, "—a darkness that weighed me down." He held her again. "It's still there…waiting to pull me back under. I can feel it. But for a few minutes, with you, I was able to remember what it was to not feel only that. You reminded me of how much I enjoy just  _being_  with you." He pressed a kiss against her temple and he squeezed her waist. Relaxing again beside her, he said, "Yes. It's an escape. I get to focus on you instead of myself. It challenges me to be creative. I look forward to watching you, to listening to you, to feeling you move in my arms. You don't have to  _do_  anything, or perform for me, or even agree to let me be a proper husband right now. But if you want a release tonight, it would be my honour to help you—" with these words, his hand drifted down to rest tantalizingly close to where she ached, his fingers lightly brushing but never quite settling down, "—achieve it."

Her ear tingled under his onslaught; her neck tingled as his breath ran across it; her inner muscles squeezed and released; she felt her heart starting to pound again. Oh God, he still  _could_  do this to her, and he  _wanted_  to. She felt tears well up without warning and she quickly covered her face with her hands, one of them bumping hard against him as she pulled it out from underneath his arm. Her shoulders shook, once. He'd pulled back initially with a gasp of surprise when she'd hit him, but a moment later she felt his arm come around her again, and he rested his forehead against her temple.

"What's wrong, my darling?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she sobbed, then laughed. "Nothing at all."

"Then why are you crying? Is it something I said?"

She just broke into another laugh-sob and shook her head under her hands. A moment later, she dashed away her ridiculous tears and rolled to face him, pressing her mouth against his and cupping his face in her hands. She poured all her crazy, conflicting emotions into the kiss, which she hoped at least conveyed to him that she loved him terribly, even if she was a blubbing mess. After a few long moments, he broke away with a breathless laugh, although with a slight frown on his face.

"That's a yes, I take it?"

She laughed against him. "You maddening, beautiful man."

He hummed in response and initiated the kiss this time. She made a small sound of contentment and felt herself begin to relax into his embrace, until he cupped her bottom and gave it a teasing squeeze. She pulled back with a gasp, smiling.

"As charming as this is," he said, pulling at her nightgown and bunching it up on her thigh while the rest of it stayed anchored beneath her, "it's dreadfully in the way."

"Fine," she smirked, and rolled out of his embrace. She made quick work of removing her nightgown and pants, then slipped back under the covers. His resulting silence and stillness gave her pause, however. She frowned. "What is it?"

"It's just so strange…to kiss you, to look at you, to recognize how beautiful you are, and to feel no answering desire for you," he said. "Don't misunderstand: I want you a great deal. I've missed you terribly and this…" his arm slid around her again, holding her loosely against him, "…this is  _so_  nice. But it's just…peaceful and contented. I don't feel an urge to take you."

"Do you miss it?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course I miss it," he answered, his face twisting. "But not in the same way as I would have missed it before. Not like in—not like when we were apart. I miss it like an old memory. Not quite. But something like that. Like when you miss a favourite part of childhood, but since you don't feel like a child anymore, the missing it…feels more distant?" He shook his head. "I'm making a real dog's breakfast of this, aren't I?"

"I don't know," she answered. "They're not my feelings you're trying to describe. But you  _are_  talking more than I expected you would."

He laughed. "Fair point, my lady."

"I  _told_  you—"

He silenced her with a kiss, then rose up on his elbow and rolled slightly to bring her underneath him. She felt his leg fall on to her own, and then she smiled as he broke the kiss and bent his head down to kiss her throat. A small moan escaped her.

He hummed in satisfaction. "Your servant," he murmured.

"No, you're not," she managed, as she felt him pull back slightly—and then felt his hand close over her breast. Both breasts suddenly ached to be held, massaged. God, it had been  _months_. It was always like this: months of waiting followed by intense relief at being together again. Her body briefly looked forward to being filled and then—then she remembered, and mourned, and closed her eyes, and let herself enjoy his touch in this moment, and gasped when his fingertips teased her nipple, plucking softly at it.

"Let me be," he answered. "I enjoy it."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him while she squirmed under his touch. Although his features were in shadow, she could tell by the shape of his cheeks that he was smiling.

"Very well, Crawley, get on with it, then."

He mock-growled and tickled her. "No, not like that."

She squirmed. "You presume to dictate to your lady?"

"You. are. not. going to rush anything."

"Some 'lady' I am," she groused, watching him shift his body.

"The best kind," he replied, and made her hiss and arch against him when he closed his mouth over the other nipple without warning and sucked on it. His mouth released her and he laughed.

She groaned and resisted the urge to lift her hips. "It's been  _months_ , Matthew, and unlike you, this isn't a distant memory for me."

"That's what I'm counting on." He'd moved further down, shifting his legs and pausing, and she lifted her head to watch him. He made a thoughtful noise.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Whatever it looks like I'm doing," he answered, placing a kiss near her belly button. He pushed the covers to the foot of the bed. The room was a comfortable temperature, so she didn't mind, but she had imagined somewhat more tame lovemaking, not whatever this was turning into.

She frowned. "Be careful of your line," she said.

"I am. I've had one hand on it to make sure it's still loose," he replied. "Don't worry about me. Lie back."

She raised an eyebrow, although there was no way he could see it in the darkness. "And think of England?"

"If you like..."

His hand parted her legs and she dropped her head, feeling the anticipation building tension in her body. An achingly pleasurable tension, but still. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he was doing as he moved around her, but his movements were unfamiliar as he worked out how to shift his own body and hers. What was he doing? He'd lifted her leg to lay it across what felt like his chest, but then he'd twisted underneath her and she wasn't sure what he was trying to do.

"...but I'd much prefer you focused on  _this_ ," he said, and she felt his tongue run along the inside edge of her sensitive folds.

She tensed in surprise and pleasure and he laughed. "That's my girl."

Her breath caught and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find something to do with her hands. Clutching the bed sheets seemed as good an idea as anything. She wanted to tighten her entire body in response to the pleasure he was giving her. She wanted to straighten her legs, but she didn't want to press on him too hard with the leg that he'd draped over himself, so she forced herself to stay relaxed and endure the exquisite torture he was inflicting upon her. Arousal was coiling her into a tight spring and he was leaving her no recourse for relieving its mounting pressure.

"Matthew," she finally moaned.

He continued his attentions a moment more and then pulled back.

"Yes?" he inquired in the blandest, most innocuous tone, as if he were reading his paper over breakfast. She suppressed a smile, easily able to picture the studied innocence of his expression.

"This is torture!"

"Good."

"Matthew!" she ended on a squeak, caught by surprise mid-word when his tongue flicked the whole length of her, ending farther up than before. He'd been holding back.

He laughed in a low voice.

"Please," she gasped.

"I hear and obey, my lady."

She growled and lifted her leg up when he pushed on it, still laughing.

The time it took him to return to her side gave her a chance to restore some balance to her body, tensing and relaxing, drawing in a few steadying breaths. She opened her eyes and watched him, looking for opportunities to help. He batted her hands away.

"I'm fine," he said. "Relax."

He settled back up beside her. "Now. Where were we?"

"Here, I think," she murmured, and kissed him, smelling some of her own scent on his lips. "You seem to have energy."

"You inspire me," he smiled. "Speaking of which…" He slid a hand down to rest on her abdomen. "Are you ready?"

"Oh yes," she answered, bending her knees and lifting her hips in anticipation. He leaned down and smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips as he slipped a finger inside her. She moaned into the kiss and pressed her hips up against his hand. He continued to move his finger, stroking her, and she broke the kiss and arched her head back.

"You  _were_  ready," he observed with a smile in his voice.

She couldn't do much more than moan in agreement at that point.

"Go ahead," he murmured in her ear. "Touch yourself."

"What?" her eyes flew open.

His finger slowed. "Well, I don't have three hands. You'll need to help."

She'd never done this in front of  _anyone_  before, not even him. She froze a moment. They'd tried many different positions when he'd been home on leave and his attentions had always been enough for her. She'd never needed to help things along. She thought that was only for when she was alone. She thought he preferred it that way.

"You…you don't mind?" she asked.

"Why would I?" he asked, drawing out his finger to rub it where he intended for her to touch, leaving her wet and gasping and clutching the sheets again. "I've dreamed about watching you do this."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "You have?"

He laughed. "I freely admit to imagining all sorts of things. It was a nice pastime. I was very much looking forward to seeing you again."

She giggled. "Me too."

He shifted down her body a short way and she lowered her legs so that his hand could get a better angle as he slipped his finger inside. He briefly withdrew, teasing her for several long moments before he re-entered. Her breath caught; her eyes closed. She felt curiously exposed and still reluctant to touch herself, but he pressed soft kisses against her skin, stroking her slowly and waiting for her until she relented. He lifted his head away when she did, to watch her, she supposed.

She put his interest out of her mind and focused on following her body's instructions. It was curiously heightened, to do this while also feeling his movements inside her. She felt the pressure building more quickly than she had expected and she drew in a breath, losing herself in the sensation. She hissed and writhed a moment later when she felt him licking at her nipple. He hummed appreciatively against her skin and the sound tightened her and she moaned, then shuddered, pulsed, and rode the sensations until she finally sighed and relaxed, limp and satisfied.

Matthew pressed his lips to the side of her breast and pulled out of her gently. She heard him give a small breath of a laugh.

"That was different," she sighed after a long moment. It had been more intense than she'd expected it to be.

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"Quite," she answered, feeling sated. He pulled himself up beside her again and when she felt his face near hers, she opened her mouth to answer him with a sleepy kiss.

"Good." He sounded satisfied with himself. She smiled and shook her head wryly.

She opened her eyes when he twisted away from her and reached for something near the edge of the bed. She frowned in confusion until she saw him drying his hand with the handkerchief that she'd given him earlier. He rolled himself back to her, pulling his legs into a stable position, and she matched him, pressing her back against his warmth with a sigh of contentment.

"And you?" she asked.

"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her, his hand cupping her breast in a familiar embrace.

"What?"

"…but when the desire cometh, it is the tree of life."

"You certainly seemed to blossom," she observed. He laughed and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, nudging aside her braid, then relaxed back again behind her. He shifted his hand to rest on her arm, his wrist now lying comfortably between her breasts.

"I'm beginning to think that we can make this work," he said.

"I'll say." She smiled.

"I just needed to succeed at something."

She frowned. "You've been doing well at physio, they said."

"It's not the same," he answered. "The whole reason I'm there is to learn to cope with this. I can never forget while I'm there."

She was discomfited by this idea. She did not want the weight of helping him to forget his disability; she was afraid she wouldn't be able to maintain it, and the prospect of disappointing him made her dread the day when it happened. Would his spirits sink even lower than they had before? And what would possibly be left that she could use to lift him out? She felt so limited, so overwhelmed by the finality of his condition and her powerlessness in the face of it.

But she would keep going, take each day as it came, and they would make it through until they adjusted to the normalcy of this new life. There was no sense in looking back, so she must look with clear eyes at the present and plan for the future, for they  _would_  have a future. Her mind started to turn over possibilities. Forgetting was not a viable strategy for him; she must turn his attention towards accepting his new life and even embracing its potential. Without the need to plan for children, what could they aim to achieve instead? Although they could spend the rest of their days at Downton, she didn't think he would thrive in a life of leisure.

Perhaps they could work together in some fashion? A charitable foundation? The thought of spending the bulk of her time on charity did not hold much appeal for her; Mary discarded that idea for the time being and turned her attention to what might lie beyond it. Aside from being some rich man's wife and raising a family, she had not given much thought to her future before; there hadn't seemed much point to it. Sybil was the one with all the dreams and ambitions. Even given all her experience managing the Downton hospital, Mary wasn't sure she wanted to be a working professional. The war had opened up many opportunities for the women left behind, but that was for the lower classes, not her kind of people. She did envy those who had something worthwhile to do with their days, however. She'd admired Matthew for continuing to practice law after he'd moved to Downton, although he hadn't needed to.

She paused. He might not have needed to continue working for his daily bread—her father had provided Matthew and Isobel with Crawley House and a regular stipend upon their arrival, of course—but Matthew  _had_  needed to continue working for other reasons. Those reasons hadn't made sense to Mary at the time, but now she could see that his work had provided him with more intangible benefits. He still clung to a sense of pride at being middle-class and working had enabled him to maintain the illusion.

No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't an illusion to him. And if she were to be honest, she reminded herself, it wasn't an illusion to her, either. He would never become the earl now. Matthew might be her husband, but he still was not a member of the aristocracy. Also, he was not the sort of man to take advantage of her father's generosity, even with a serious disability: Matthew wanted to provide for himself and his family. He wanted to be useful and he wanted the stimulation that work afforded his mind. He enjoyed his work. There was no reason he couldn't continue it in some form, she thought. It wasn't as though he'd made his living as a manual labourer before the war. Although he might not be able to return to his old job, exactly, there was nothing wrong with his mind. Surely there was still some sort of legal work he could do.

But perhaps not in Downton, or even Ripon, she realised with a certain sadness. Rural Yorkshire was not exactly a thriving centre of economic activity, in need of someone who specialised in industrial law. He'd been fortunate to secure a position with a firm on such short notice when he'd arrived at Downton. She'd visited the firm's office once, after he'd left for training, to deliver some paperwork that he'd forgotten to return in the flurry of activity before their sooner-than-anticipated wedding. She could have put the paperwork in the post, but she'd also needed to sign some things for his employers as she was his new next-of-kin. Messrs Harvell and Carter had been kind and solicitous and they'd spoken very highly of him then, but Mary was not sure they would be in a position to take him back now.

She sighed and frowned, looking towards the curtains. Dawn was only a few short hours away and it was not long before Anna would be in with a tray. Their day would begin; he would go to physio after breakfast. That would leave Mary with a couple hours before lunch. She needed to talk with someone about her ideas before broaching the subject with Matthew. She wanted to be prepared, to anticipate his objections and have answers for them. Perhaps she could speak with Granny, or her father…yes, her father would suit.

Satisfied with having arrived at a plan, Mary shifted on to her back to kiss Matthew good-night. She paused and smiled when she realised his eyes were closed and his breathing was even. He had finally fallen asleep.


	26. Chapter 26

_26_

**October 1918**

"Excuse me, my lady, but who is that?" Major Gordon asked, reaching out to touch Edith's hand as she passed him in the library, where she was distributing books to the men. She paused and smiled at the Canadian officer.

"Of whom do you speak?"

"That boy. The older one. I've seen him about the place rather a lot. Is he the son of that officer?"

Major Gordon pointed out the window, across the lawn towards where Matthew sat in the sun in his chair, Edward and Harry on his lap. They were flipping through a picture-book together. Edward pointed at a page and flapped his arms, and Matthew laughed. Harry bounced in excitement and pointed at something else. Matthew made a funny face and looked as though he was producing some sort of animal sound, which set the two boys to giggling.

Edith smiled. "No, that's my brother, Edward Crawley. The officer is my sister's husband."

"Y-your brother?" The Major's voice wavered and Edith looked at him with a frown of curiosity.

"Yes." She couldn't read his expression. His scarred face was largely obscured by a swath of bandages.

"So he's Rob—ah, Lord Grantham's son? His heir?"

Edith's frown deepened and she straightened, looking at the Canadian officer with narrowed eyes. There was something oddly familiar about him...

She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and looked back towards the boys and Matthew with a proud smile.

"Yes, he is Viscount Downton, my father's heir."

"When was he born?"

"December 1914, less than a year before my son Harry, the other little boy."

"Ah." Major Gordon nodded slowly. He seemed to sag a little, his eyes flickering from the scene outside down to her hand, and then he shot her a twisted smile—as good as he could manage, given the terrible damage to his face. "You have a son. You must be proud of him."

Edith smiled. "I am. I also have a daughter, Sylvia. She's just over a year old. She's home with her father this afternoon."

"Oh? And who is the lucky man?"

Edith chuckled and looked down a moment. The officers were always flirting in a friendly way; she supposed it was something to do with celebrating that they were still alive.

"Sir Anthony Strallan."

"Sir Ant—" Major Gordon gave a short, disbelieving laugh and shook his head, then quickly recovered himself. "Sir Anthony is a  _very_  lucky man, to have such a beautiful family. Thank you, my lady, for your time. I shan't impose on you further."

"Would you like a novel? Or I have some nonfiction here..."

"No, no thank you," the officer replied, waving her off with a bandaged hand. "I think I'll just rest awhile."

"As you wish," Edith replied, giving him a kind smile as she moved on.

* * *

"You three are as thick as thieves out here," Mary called to Matthew, crossing the lawn towards where Edward and Harry squatted beneath the sprawling cedar, poking at the ground with sticks. Norris sat on the bench beside the tree, her hands folded in her lap. As Mary approached, the nanny stood and smoothed her skirts.

Matthew looked up. He was putting two picture-books into a bag slung over the back of his chair.

He smiled and gestured towards the boys. "Not any more. Edward is convinced there are snakes living under the roots of that tree, and I'm afraid I can't compete."

Mary chuckled as Matthew grasped the wheels of his chair and rolled himself forward.

"Master Edward, Master Harry, it's time to go in for a snack," Norris announced. "Mrs Patmore has made you raisin cakes."

Harry bounced up. "Cake?"

Edward shook his head and dropped his stick, kicking it. "Not real cake.  _Raisin_  cake." He made a face. "I don't like raisins."

Harry turned to face Norris and put his hands on his hips. "Not  _raisins_ ," he echoed.

Mary chuckled as she seated herself on the bench, setting her handbag beside her. "I'm sure Mrs Patmore will have other treats, if you ask. Carson always has a tin of chocolate biscuits. But you should ask nicely and say 'thank-you', even if you must pick out raisins."

Edward kicked the dirt.

"I like raisins," Harry suddenly announced. He looked up at Norris. "May I have raisins?"

"If you like," the nanny replied, giving Matthew and Mary an apologetic glance. "Come along, now." She herded the boys towards the house.

Matthew smiled and watched them go as he wheeled himself over to the bench. He rolled behind it, then turned the chair and reversed until he was at the angle he wanted. Pulling up beside Mary, he settled back with a sigh.

"How was your day?" he asked, taking her in with a slight frown. "I hope you haven't been working yourself too hard. You left early this morning and I missed you at lunch."

Mary shook her head and looked out across the grounds, clasping her gloved hands in her lap. It was a lovely, crisp fall day. The leaves were slowly turning, and the late-afternoon sun shone bright in the sky.

"I'm still terribly backed up," she answered. "I shouldn't have let the work lapse for so long when you returned, but I couldn't concentrate on figures."

Matthew gave her a small, close-lipped smile. "I know what you mean."

She smoothed her skirt. "I'm catching up."

Matthew stretched his arms and rubbed his left shoulder, wincing slightly as he rotated it.

"The boys aren't wearing you out, I hope," Mary said. "Mama tells me that you have races across the lawn."

"No, quite the opposite," he answered with a soft chuckle. "They make me feel young again."

 _You're not that old_ , Mary thought, but she kept it to herself.

"I'm so grateful that Cora and Edith allow them to spend time with me," Matthew said, then sighed. "I've always wanted children."

Mary gave him a sharp look.

"One day, when I was perhaps thirteen," Matthew explained, "I grew angry with Father for not letting me have a horse, like many of the other boys at Radley. The school horses weren't usually as young or fast, so I was always at a disadvantage. When I visited my friends' houses, I saw that we lived more modestly. But I knew, from how people spoke of my father, that he was one of the preeminent physicians at St. Mary's. It was generally assumed that we were quite well off. I once overheard guests commenting with surprise on how small Glendale House is, and wondering why we kept so few servants.

"So I threw a tantrum and demanded a horse. I pleaded, I explained how I always lost at races, I tried everything, but they were firm in their refusal. I accused them of being stingy..." Matthew dropped his head and chuckled. "I was a fool."

"You were  _thirteen_ ," Mary pointed out.

He lifted his head, shaking it. "I was old enough to know better. After I'd calmed down, Father came to my room and asked me why I thought that having a faster horse, one I could call my own, would be better. Why was it important that I win all the races? I tried to explain, but with each answer I gave, he would ask another question. What would winning give me? Why did I want the other boys to respect me for how many races I won? Wouldn't it be better to be respected for something I had accomplished on my own? Or better yet, for being a man of integrity and kindness?"

Mary swallowed and blinked. She suddenly wished she had had the chance to meet Reginald Crawley. She thought that she would have liked him very much.

"So did you give up asking for a horse?" she asked.

Matthew laughed. "Of course not. I was  _thirteen_."

Mary chuckled.

"But I never forgot the questions he asked," Matthew continued, sobering. "And I learned to ask them of myself. I discovered that my parents gave away much of their money to charitable causes, and what they kept, they saved, for my sake." Matthew swallowed, his eyes growing damp. "Because I had no siblings, I alone would carry the burden of supporting them in their old age, and they wanted me to be able to devote all my earnings to my own family's comfort. I looked forward to the day I could introduce them to their first grandchild and make all of their sacrifice worthwhile." He gave a dry, brittle laugh. "They never expected I would die childless, living on the goodwill of my wife's family."

Mary briefly closed her eyes and tilted her head.  _Not this again_. She fought to hold her peace, despite how annoying and tedious his moods could be.

"We don't have to stay here, you know," she finally said.

"Moving to Crawley House won't change Robert's desire to provide for us. Besides, all the bedrooms there are on the second floor."

"That can be addressed, but never mind. I don't mean Crawley House."

Matthew frowned. "What are you saying?"

Mary steeled herself. "You might not be able to walk through farmyards any more, but there's nothing wrong with your mind. They say it can't be long, now. After the war, we could contact your old firm in Manchester—"

"It's out of the question."

"What? Why?"

"Can you imagine me being lifted from cars and carried up and down steps? I'd have to employ a manservant just to meet with clients." Matthew scowled. "Not that anyone would want to retain a  _crippled_  lawyer." He gave a derisive snort, then turned to look at her, his eyes hard. "I will leave Downton," he said. "But there's no call for you to."

Mary sat forward, setting her jaw. "You are  _not_  going to be rid of me. There are no grounds for a divorce. You'd never be able to convince a judge to grant you one."

"I could spend the night at a hotel with a floozy and claim that I abused you."

"And I would deny every word and tell them the truth!"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And what is the truth, really? Am I still a fit husband? How many times have you been awakened in the last two weeks? If I believed you would be forced to spend the rest of your days subjected to  _such_ —" His voice choked off and he flung his arm out. "I should jump into the nearest river!"

Mary looked at the significant hill that rose between them and the river that fed the lake. "And how would you manage that without my help?" she asked dryly, hiding her deep discomfort at his words.

He looked at her a moment, subsiding, then gestured dismissively. "Well, I'd get you to push me in."

Mary laughed and looked down at her lap, slightly relieved.

Matthew gave a small wave of his hand, his arm still on the rest. "Seriously, how can I relax—" He drew in a deep breath. "—knowing what I've condemned you to for the rest of our life together?"

Mary's heart fell again.

"I can't help thinking you'd be better off if I went away and never saw you again," he said in a listless tone.

Mary closed her eyes and tilted her head, shaking it. "You don't mean that."

"But I do. 'I am the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' I have nothing to give and nothing to share."

Mary opened her eyes and glared at him. "Do you really love me so little that you could discard me so easily?"

Matthew's head snapped around. "Of course not! The thought of leaving you breaks my heart!"

Mary sat forward, grasping the edge of the bench with both hands. "And what do you think it does to  _my_  heart, Matthew?!" He stiffened, pressing his lips together as tears rose in his eyes. "I asked you before: how would you respond if our positions were reversed? If I'd fallen from Diamond and broken my back, say?" At his silence, she pressed him again. "What would you have done? Tell me!"

He swallowed, his throat working. "I would have stayed with you," he answered in a strained voice.

"And if I'd woken you in the night because I needed to be cared for?"

He looked away, a tear now spilling down his cheek. "I would have done it. Gladly. And held you afterwards." His mouth pulled down and his nostrils flared.

Mary turned and fished a kerchief out of her handbag, passing it over to him with a businesslike air. "Then pay me the compliment of believing that my love is as true as yours."

He accepted the kerchief with a nod of thanks but did not wipe his eyes. "I know it is...that you are..." He swallowed. "... _magnificent_."

Mary smiled and drew in a small breath. She would not cry right now. She was not finished.

He shook his head. "I don't deserve you."

"Not in this state, you don't."

He let out a short breath of a laugh and finally dried his face, shaking his head as he did so. When he finished, he fixed her with a serious, piercing look.

"And how would  _you_  have responded if our positions were reversed? Wouldn't you be humiliated and filled with regret?"

"For the first night or two," she answered. "Then I would have gotten on with the business of living and demanded a proper nurse, because you'd be blubbing and soppy and annoyingly attentive."

Matthew laughed and shook his head, wiping at his eyes again. When he finished, he released a long sigh.

"Your plan is rubbish anyway," Mary observed, and Matthew frowned at her. "What did you expect: to ask your mother to take care of you instead? Or would you hire a nurse and isolate yourself in some distant place? I assume that you were planning to leave me all your worldly goods, as a tragically heroic parting gift, so how would you support yourself? Or did you just expect to end up begging on the streets until the day I rushed to your side and found you breathing your last in a ditch?"

Matthew shifted, his hands fidgeting on the armrests of his chair. He looked down as he fought a smile. "I could always...write novels?"

"Novels." Mary arched her eyebrow at him. When he shrugged weakly, she said, "I wasn't aware that you had any desire to write."

He frowned and looked away. "I don't. But the idea of penning a heavy-handed allegory condemning the pointlessness of war and the cruelty of a selfish king holds a certain appeal."

Mary regarded him a moment. "You don't mean King George, I take it."

Matthew's eyes flickered to hers and then away again.

"Have you talked to Mr Travis? He'll be by again on Sunday, you could—"

" _No_."

Mary looked away. "Suit yourself." She looked back at him, gesturing with a toss of her chin. "What time is it?"

Matthew glanced down at the new wristwatch she'd bought him; his pocket-watch had been lost on the battlefield. "A quarter to four."

She straightened and gathered up her handbag as she stood, slipping it over her wrist, and then she held out her hand for the kerchief and he gave it to her.

"I'm going in to freshen up before tea. Are you coming?" she asked, tucking the kerchief away.

Matthew sighed. "If I don't go in, Cora will send Bates out to collect me."

Mary came around behind Matthew's chair and took the handles. "It must be awful, having people care about you."

Matthew glared at the house as Mary pointed him towards the ramp Robert had had built outside the library doors. They crossed the lawn in silence.

"I don't want to die alone in a ditch," Matthew finally said. "But sometimes I just wish for this...this horrible time to be over."

"I know," Mary said quietly, and she slowed to a stop, bent, and kissed his temple. He closed his eyes as she pushed him forward again. "We can take comfort in the knowledge that one day...it will be." Matthew frowned and opened his eyes. "Until then, we shall go through it together, and strive to make each day better than the last."

Matthew reached up behind himself with one hand, searching for hers. She moved her hand forward, clasping his briefly before returning to grip the handle of his chair.

"I love you," he said, turning his head towards her.

"You'd better," she answered with a smile. "After everything I have to put up with."

He chuckled and shook his head as she pushed him inside.

* * *

"What do you think will become of them?" Cora asked. A worried frown creased her brow and she sighed. "Sometimes I regret having pushed Mary towards Matthew."

Robert shot his wife an incensed look. "Why? They are very well suited to each other."

Cora narrowed her eyes. "Really?" She looked back out the window as Mary pushed Matthew towards the library ramp. "Mary seems...lessened."

" _Lessened?_ " Robert snapped. "In what way, exactly? I think she's matured a great deal!"

"She's softened." Cora gave an unhappy sigh. "She has the bearing of a Countess, but I fear she'll spend her life a nursemaid, always dependent on our charity."

Robert frowned as he looked out the window. "They could hire a nurse. And why couldn't Matthew still work?"

Cora shook her head. "Mary says he hasn't the heart for it."

"He's only been home two months. Give him time."

"Time to do  _what_ , Robert? He's already well enough to wheel himself around. They can remain here while he convalesces, but what will happen when the war ends?"

"I see. You want to throw them out." Robert gave an annoyed twist towards her as he spoke, his voice rising. "Sometimes, Cora, you can be curiously unfeeling."

Cora's mouth pulled down. "I want them to learn to be as independent as they can. What's wrong with that?" She looked away with a frown. "I just can't bear to see Mary slowly waste away to nothing, forgotten by Society, and that is what will happen if they remain here."

Robert's heart squeezed as he watched Matthew reach up to clasp Mary's hand. Robert had a strong feeling that Mary would do the exact  _opposite_  of wasting away to nothing, and he smiled at the thought.

"As long as she remains trapped, she'll never have a chance at position, influence, children..."

Robert gave Cora a sharp look. "'Trapped'? They're happily  _married_ , Cora." Robert gestured towards the window, lowering his voice as he saw Mary and Matthew mounting the ramp. "They love each other. How can you not see how..." Robert trailed off with a frown. "What do you mean, 'she'll never have a chance at children'?"

Cora turned away from the window. "He can't. It's not just his legs that don't work, Robert." She frowned. "I thought you knew."

Robert shook his head slightly, stunned. Words failed him and he felt an urge to cry.  _Oh, my boy!_

"I'm just terribly afraid she'll end up unhappy," Cora said in a low tone.

Robert swallowed and looked out across the empty lawn as Cora walked away. When he knew he was alone, he stepped up to the window and rested his forehead on the frame, closing his eyes.

* * *

Mary leaned slightly towards Edith, lowering her voice. "I'm just terribly worried for him. Sometimes he talks of taking his own life. I don't think he'll do it, but his mood swings..." She sighed and looked down. Sybil took her hand briefly and Mary gave her sister a small smile.

Edith glanced across the room to where Anthony sat beside Matthew and Robert after dinner. The men were now engrossed in an intense discussion about the lamentable state of the economy; Edith had caught the occasional reference to rationing and how landowners weren't benefitting from the high food prices. Isobel, Cora, and Violet had turned to discussing possible beneficial programs that Downton Abbey could offer to the convalescing officers, to help them re-enter society and find gainful employment. Isobel seemed quite passionate about the idea, Cora and Violet less so. Mary, Edith, and Sybil had drifted off to sit quietly by themselves, preferring not to get between the three older women.

Edith smiled as she watched Anthony gesticulating and Robert nodding in agreement.

"Anthony wasn't himself again until he began to work on improving the infrastructure on the farms," she replied, frowning slightly as she thought. She focused on Mary again. "Perhaps if Matthew had something to put his mind to..."

"The men are putting on a concert soon," Sybil offered. "He could sing in it. He has a lovely voice!"

"I've tried suggesting that," Mary sighed, "but he just looks away and refuses to talk about it."

"But for Anthony, it wasn't merely being busy," Edith said. "It was occupying himself with something that he loves to do. What does Matthew love to do?"

Mary frowned. "Read. Wa—" Her voice caught. "Walk outdoors," she finished, more quietly. "And other things he can't do anymore."

Edith pressed her lips together and glanced across to where Matthew sat in his chair, talking with Robert and Anthony. Or rather, sitting with a slight frown on his face as the other two men talked to each other. She looked back at her sisters and gave them a tight smile, unsure what comfort she could offer.

* * *

Tom pushed the bolt up into the oil pan cover and twisted the nut with a wrench, careful not to overtighten it. He heard familiar heels clicking on the stone floor and he smiled.

"I wish I knew how an engine worked," he heard Sybil say.

He reached up outside the car, grabbing the luggage grate, and hauled himself out.

"I can teach you if you like," he answered with a grin, quickly getting to his feet.

Sybil smiled. "That's Edith's territory."

He picked up a rag and turned away slowly, walking over to his workbench to lay down the wrench, his back to her. "I thought you were avoiding me."

She came quickly to his side and put her hand on the workbench. "Of course not."

He raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her. "But you haven't come up with an answer yet, have you?"

Sybil turned her face down and away. "Not yet, I'm afraid."

Tom looked at his hands; they were covered in grease. Not fit to touch a lady, even if she would let him. Why was she here? He'd said everything he could, and now he could only wait for her to make a decision. He methodically wiped his fingers with the rag, knowing they smelled of oil and petrol, and wondering whether she would ever be willing to throw her lot in with a man who had to work for a living.

"I know you want to play your part in Ireland's troubles—" Sybil began, and Tom lifted his head, "—and I respect that..."  _But I don't share your passion for it_. Tom broke away from her gaze. "...but I just can't think about it all until the war is over."

He looked back down at his hands, nodding in resignation.

 _But she's standing here, beside you. She came to see you._  Tom smiled.

"It won't be long now," Sybil finished, "so will you wait?"

His heart gave a cautious leap. If she'd decided against him, she wouldn't be here right now, asking for his patience. He turned to face her as he set down the rag.

"I'd wait forever."

Her expression softened as she regarded him, and she shifted her stance. "I'm not asking for forever. Just a few more weeks."

Tom looked at her, at the brightness of her blue eyes; the full, inviting shape of her lips; her regal bearing; the practical set of her hair; and the plainness of her nursing uniform. He didn't intend to work in a garage for the rest of his days, but he knew she would not object to being in one with him, if necessary. She was no stranger to hard work, and she was not too proud to do what needed doing. He loved her fiercely.

He swallowed and nodded. After a final look, she gave him a small smile and went out again.

He released a pent-up breath and closed his eyes, hope warring with fear in his heart.

* * *

**November 1918**

"Please, Mary..." Matthew closed his eyes.

"I just think we ought to plan for the future," she said. "Is that so unreasonable?"

Matthew frowned, feeling ill. "The future."

"Yes!" Mary answered. " _Our_  future. I'm sure there's some work you could do, and I could make a place for myself as well. With my experience at the hospital—"

"No," Matthew snapped. "I don't want you to work."

Mary bristled. "I can do as well as any man—"

Matthew sighed, rubbing his forehead briefly. "That's not what I meant and you know it." He lowered his hand and looked up at her, annoyed. "You're a  _Lady_ , for God's sake. You shouldn't have to work."

Mary glared at him. "O _ne_  of us needs to, since you seem so set on not living off my father's charity."

Matthew sat forward with a huff and grabbed the wheels of his chair, turning away from her. "I'll not be an invalid supported by his wife," he growled.

"You're being impossible!"

"This  _situation_  is impossible!" he snapped back, twisting his head in her direction. He couldn't see her, so he looked away again. He had no energy to fight her. He just wanted her to stop harrying him.

Mary stalked around his chair, her jaw set. "It doesn't have to be, and you know it."

"I have nothing to give you," Matthew answered sullenly, wishing he could storm out of the room and cursing his damned useless legs.

"You need to stop fighting a fight that's already been won!" Mary exclaimed, stepping forward, her eyes blazing. "I didn't marry you for the title, or for money, or for children, or even for—" her voice quieted and her eyes softened, "—the lovemaking." She straightened, trembling slightly, and drew in a deep breath. "Matthew, I married you because I love  _you_. I love who you are, not what you can give me."

She sank slowly to her knees before him and his mouth fell open as he watched her descent. He flinched when she put her hands on his knees—knees that couldn't feel her touch, but his chest still burned at the sight. He looked to the side, unable to meet her gaze.

"I know I'm a better person for having loved you," she said quietly. "For having been loved by you. Please don't shut me out."

He closed his eyes, waiting for her to leave.  _Needing_  her to leave.

She eventually did; he heard her rise with a sigh. He didn't know when she lifted her hands away from his knees. He heard the  _swish_  of her skirts, a soft sniff that tore at him, an exhalation, and then silence. He waited for several heartbeats, and several more, and several more still, before he slowly opened his eyes.

Rolling one wheel backwards, he turned and stared at the small screened-off room, empty but for himself. There was little noise coming from the other side of the screens; no doubt their fight had been heard by the officers. Matthew drew in a tight breath, his hopelessness mixing with shame. Dull nausea remained in his stomach and the burning sensation remained in his chest. The silence echoed and he closed his eyes, weary, so terribly weary.

* * *

When Mary emerged from the private portion of the library, she was surprised to see her father standing outside. His expression shocked her: there were tears in his eyes. He took her hand, squeezed it, and let it go.

"I'm so proud of you," he said hoarsely, practically whispering it in his struggle to speak.

She looked away from his emotion, discomfited, hovering far too close to the precipice herself.

"I tried, as you suggested," she said.

"I heard."

"I even called his old firm from before the war, but the operator told me the line was disconnected."

Robert nodded. "They closed shortly after the start of the war. It was announced in the  _Ripon Gazette_. Didn't they send you his things?"

Mary frowned. "No."

Robert tilted his head. "Have you asked Isobel?"

"Oh," Mary said. "Of course. If there was a delivery, Molesley probably just put Matthew's things in his study, and if it happened before I moved in..."

Robert nodded.

"I'm surprised they closed the firm," Mary continued. "They seemed to be doing a brisk business when I stopped by in 1914."

"They retired," Robert said. "To be honest, I was surprised Matthew had found a job nearby on such short notice. I hadn't thought there was a dearth of solicitors in the neighbourhood." He smiled. "I stopped by to see him once when I had business in Ripon, but he wasn't in. When I met the venerable partners and they spoke so highly of him, I realised he'd been hired because neither of them were up to traipsing around to all the farms and estates any longer."

Mary smiled. "He always seemed to be travelling the length and breadth of Yorkshire, didn't he?" She drew in a breath, thinking fondly of the night he'd appeared in mud-spattered trousers.

Then the memory of Matthew standing and smiling at her made her heart squeeze, and she looked down, blinking rapidly as she started to turn away from her father.

"I heard what you said about your work at the hospital."

Mary turned back with a slight frown. "What of it?"

Robert pressed his lips together, then lifted his chin. "Before, I would have agreed with Matthew about you not working, but now..."

Mary nodded, looking away again. "One of us will have to work."

"No...that's not what I meant," Robert said, and she glanced up at him. "Clarkson speaks very highly of you. Your grandmother is impressed with how smoothly the place is run. And you..." He swallowed, his eyes suddenly bright again. "...you've  _thrived_."

Mary arched her eyebrow. "I shall purposely not take offence at the surprise in your tone."

Robert looked down with a laugh, shaking his head.

"Thank you, Papa," Mary said in a softer voice, touching his arm.

"I wish there was something I could do," he answered.

Mary gave a sigh. "I know. But he won't accept your charity."

Robert nodded, frowning as he watched her walk away.

* * *

The following morning, Matthew wheeled himself into the private portion of the library as Carson held the door open.

"It might have been well-intentioned, but it was meddling, Robert," Anthony was saying. "You undermined Edith's authority and created confusion amongst my men."

"I'm sorry for any  _inconvenience_  that might have resulted," Robert replied, his jaw set. He noticed Matthew and straightened. "It just seemed a great deal of responsibility for her, particularly in her condition."

"If you had concerns, you should have written to me first. I trust her judgement."

Robert nodded, looking unhappy, but he brightened when he glanced at Matthew. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Matthew answered. "I'm sorry, I hadn't known I'd be interrupting." He paused and gestured behind him. "I can wait outside if you prefer."

"No, no, we're finished," Robert said, lifting his chin at Anthony, who nodded and smiled. Despite Anthony's earlier words, his mood seemed affable. He stepped back as Robert went past, gesturing for Matthew to proceed. "Please ensure they won't be disturbed, won't you, Carson?"

"Yes, my lord."

Robert paused, glancing back. "Anthony. Good to see you."

"And you, Robert."

The earl nodded and left, Carson on his heels.

Matthew drew up to the high-backed chair, taking his place on the other side of the small table beside it. Anthony extended his left hand and Matthew took it, feeling odd to be shaking with the opposite hand, but smiling up at Anthony anyway.

"Good morning," Matthew said. "How are you?"

Anthony settled his long frame in the chair with a sigh. "Well, all things considered. And you?"

Matthew shrugged.

"Water?" Anthony reached for the pitcher on the table between them.

Matthew wasn't particularly thirsty, but the movement gave Anthony something to do that seemed to demonstrate he was still fully capable of being a gentleman, so Matthew nodded and accepted the offered glass.

"Carson said you wanted to see me?"

Anthony nodded and took a sip before setting his glass down. He tilted his head back towards the door. "I'm sorry you had to overhear that," he said. "Robert and I disagree over how much responsibility Edith should have in managing our estate."

Matthew frowned. "Surely that's a matter between you and your wife."

"It is, but when she was late in her term with Sylvia, she collapsed—do you remember that?"

Matthew nodded, then raised his eyebrows in understanding. "Ah. I'm sorry. I meant to ask Robert why he summoned Thornton the next morning, but the moment got away from me."

Anthony waved a hand. "Never mind. It's sorted now." He shifted his sling slightly and settled again, resting his head back against the chair. A smile grew on his face. "I'm so grateful for Edith. You've no idea how wonderful it is to have a wife who shares the load, particularly when—well...you know." He glanced down at his unmoving arm.

Matthew nodded and looked away. "I have some idea."

Anthony chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you would. We both married Crawley sisters, after all."

Matthew smiled. "They are all extraordinary. I can only imagine what Edward will become."

Anthony laughed. "If the antics that he and Harry get up to are any indication, quite a handful."

Matthew chuckled and nodded.

"That's partly why I'm here," Anthony said, sobering. "I'll need you to speak for my family."

Matthew looked at him with a frown. "What?"

Anthony sat forward, took a swallow of water, and carefully set the glass back down. He met Matthew's gaze. "I don't expect to see my children grow to adulthood, and I need someone whom I can trust to take Edith's corner when it comes to it."

"No one will be able to challenge her, surely. She's the mistress of your estate. And you've many years yet." Matthew took a sip of his water, then set the glass down beside Anthony's.

"No." Anthony shook his head. "I didn't leave service merely because of my arm. After I was wounded, they asked me to continue in a different capacity, but I'd learned two years ago that...well, I have a condition. It's untreatable. It's slow-moving right now, but eventually I won't be able to hide the symptoms." He sighed. "When I found out, more than anything, I wanted to spend every remaining moment I could with my family."

Matthew nodded.

Anthony looked away. "Legally, no one will be able to force Edith to do anything she doesn't wish to, but I want to ensure she is protected from well-meaning relations who might use...other means." He raised an eyebrow, giving Matthew a wry smile.

Matthew nodded. "I'm not sure how I can help, but I'll do my best."

"Thank you." Anthony sat back again with a long sigh. "You've no idea how much that means."

Matthew followed Anthony's gaze towards the window. The sun shone brightly and a high wind blew through the trees, their leaves whipping to and fro as the branches waved. With the onset of autumn, the landscape was now filled with yellow and pale orange hues, reminding him that time marched on, unaffected by the Great War. He took comfort in seeing the beauty and implacability of Nature. As he heard the quiet sounds of men moving about on the other side of the screens—thankfully, no one was playing table tennis just now—he was caught by the strangeness of the moment, by how out-of-place it seemed against the beautiful backdrop. A great house, now converted into a convalescent home and filled with injured men, many of whom would never be whole again.

Matthew frowned. Unlike the rest of the family, Anthony understood. He didn't pretend cheer, yet he still smiled and carried on. For a man whom Matthew might have called "boring" before the war, there was a great deal more to his brother-in-law than met the eye.

"Do you ever wonder if it's all worth it?" Matthew asked, as he watched leaves swirling about the base of a tree.

Anthony chuckled. "God, yes."

Matthew looked at him. "How do you do it?"

"Carrying on, you mean?"

Matthew nodded.

Anthony drew in a deep breath, exhaled. "It wasn't easy at first. Sometimes I still have an urge to kick things in frustration when I forget this—" he nodded down at his sling, "—and I'm forcibly reminded. I can feel a great deal, you know. I just can't move a damn thing."

Matthew frowned. "I can't feel anything at all." He winced. "Except, of course, a constant pain in my lower back, just above where I lose sensation, and—" he stretched his neck from side to side, "—discomfort from adjusting to doing everything with my arms instead."

Anthony nodded. "I couldn't even sign my name for the longest time," he said. "It looks like a child's scrawl now. I've given up writing, mostly. Edith taught herself to type and she takes dictation." He shook his head. "I honestly don't know how I'd get by without her. I'd be a miserable sod, I think." He sighed. "Robert just doesn't understand. The world he and I grew up in is fast disappearing."

"The world is changing," Matthew agreed. "I must confess...I'm not sure whether to look forward to it or to dread it."

"A bit of both, I would imagine," Anthony said with a chuckle, and Matthew smiled. Anthony took a sip from his glass and held it on the armrest. "Edith looks forward to the future. She's filled with ideas and plans." Anthony smiled. "She makes me look forward to it." He sat up suddenly and set down the glass. "Oh! I almost forgot. She showed me something that I wanted to show you."

Anthony lifted his hip and reached into his trouser pocket, drawing out his wallet. Holding the leather pouch against his leg, he deftly worked out a one-pound note with his fingers. He handed the note to Matthew, who took it with a frown.

"What's this?" Matthew asked as he turned it over. It was just an ordinary banknote, that he could see, crisp and newly-issued.

Anthony finished replacing his wallet and settled back. "Exactly what it looks like," he answered, holding out his hand. Matthew gave the money back to him. Anthony looked down at it with a small smile as he laid it on his thigh and reached for his glass of water.

"When I was first home," he said, "I was in an awful state." Anthony poured a bit of water on the note. Matthew's mouth dropped open and he put out a hand, but Anthony seemed unconcerned as a few rivulets ran down his trouser leg. He set the glass back on the table. "I'd put Edith in the worst position: not only had she married a man who was old enough to be her father, but I was also crippled and would be far more so in only a few years. I'd condemned her to the life of a nursemaid; it was such a terrible  _waste_." He picked up the dripping banknote and crumpled it in his fist, baring his teeth. He bit out his next words. "I hated myself. I hated how people looked at me; it seemed they only saw my arm." He dropped the crumpled note on the carpet and suddenly stood up, anger making his movements jerky. "I hated how I could no longer drive. Or write. Or even dress myself without help!"

Matthew pressed himself back against his chair, his eyes widening as Anthony stamped his foot on the crumpled piece of paper, then ground his heel into it. Had the older man gone quite mad?

As quickly as Anthony's sudden burst of energy had appeared, it passed. He crouched down—still surprisingly agile for a man his age, Matthew noted—and picked up the now torn and wrinkled one-pound note. Anthony pressed it against his thigh and smoothed the paper flat with his fingers, leaving behind another damp spot on his trouser leg.

He held out the damaged banknote to Matthew, who eyed it warily.

Anthony smiled. "Don't worry, I won't bite."

Matthew took the note with a frown, then raised questioning eyes to Anthony. Anthony turned away with a nod, going past Matthew towards the door.

Quickly dropping the note on his lap, Matthew grabbed the wheels of his chair and twisted around, watching the other man walk away.

"Wait," Matthew called, and Anthony paused at the door and turned. "What is this about?"

Anthony glanced down at the note in Matthew's lap, a smile playing on his lips as he grasped the door handle.

"What is it worth now?" Anthony asked.

Matthew frowned, looking down at the sodden piece of paper. "One pound."

"Mm-hmm," Anthony replied, and while Matthew stared after him in confusion, mouth open, the older man went out, still smiling. "Ah, Carson. Would you have Marsters bring the car around?"

"Certainly, sir," Carson replied, as the door swung shut behind Anthony.

Matthew stared at the closed door, then down at the note in his lap. Its once-crisp outlines were now torn, wrinkled, and worn in places. One pound could buy a great deal; it was several weeks' wages for a labourer. Why had Anthony given it such a beating? What had Edith shown him? Had she destroyed a banknote, too? Why would she do that?

_Edith looks forward to the future._

Matthew frowned.

_What is it worth now?_

_One pound._

Matthew swallowed thickly and pressed a hand to his mouth, his vision blurring as he stared down at it.

* * *

**Five days later**

"Five more," Sister Andrews commanded, and Matthew grunted as he pushed down on the arms of his chair, lifting himself a few inches. "Back straight!"

Matthew adjusted his posture and continued pushing.  _Four. Three. ...Two._  He gave a long groan and forced out a final push.  _One._

"Carefully!" the nurse said, putting out a hand. "Lower yourself slowly."

There was no point protesting that his arms were sore and tired after a half-hour of stretching and turning, holding positions, and lifting hand weights. Sister Andrews would still bark orders at him until he'd completed his course of physiotherapy for the day.

He sank down into his chair with a sigh of relief. She handed him a towel and a glass of water, which he accepted with a grateful nod. When he was finished with those, she held out his tunic. He took it and bent forward with a wince as he pulled it on, rolling his shoulders and neck.

She jutted her chin past him. "You should make an appointment with Mr Adell. He'll be by this afternoon."

Matthew nodded, suppressing his annoyance as he buttoned up his tunic. He preferred Mary's firm and patient touch to the masseur's heavier hand. "I know. I will."

Sister Andrews gave him an unimpressed look. "As you did last time?"

Since scowling wasn't going to work, Matthew went for charm instead, giving her his best placating smile. "Something came up."

She crossed her arms. "A massage will help to reduce the pain. Why won't you try it?"

"I  _will_ ," Matthew protested, then shrugged. "...later."

She shook her head as she glanced past him, dropping her arms to beckon the next patient in. "I'll see you tomorrow, Captain Crawley. Have a good day."

"And you," he answered, and winced slightly as he turned his chair around with tired arms. He nodded to the next man and rolled out of the sitting room into the great hall. He wanted a few minutes of quiet solitude before Carson rang the dressing gong, so he made his way between the long tables, past the officers playing cards and chatting, exchanging polite nods with them as he went.

Edith moved about the room, collecting discarded books. It was a usual afternoon at Downton Abbey now. Matthew had grown accustomed to the rhythms of the day, as the men who had recovered went back to war, the permanently-crippled went home, and new wounded men arrived. Matthew's own convalescence was nearing an end; there was little that could be done to improve his quality of life now. This pattern was the best he could expect for the rest of his days.

Recognising the sour turn of his mood, he set his jaw and rolled forward, giving an extra push—despite his aching shoulders—as he neared the library door. He could no longer avoid planning for the future. He had pledged to care for Mary until death parted them, and he would do his damnedest to fulfil that promise, even if he still had little hope of being able to live up to it. There must be  _something_  he could do.

When he reached the door, he glanced about. Carson was nowhere to be seen, so Matthew pushed the door open, wheeling himself forward and quickly catching the bottom of the door against the front of his footrest, to avoid the door hitting his other hand as he grabbed the second wheel to straighten his chair out. He gave the door a hard push and rolled in quickly past it, letting it close behind him.

"You're becoming rather adept with that," a voice observed, and Matthew's gaze shot up. Robert twisted in his chair, turning away from his desk as he faced Matthew.

Matthew smiled. "I've had plenty of practice."

Robert chuckled softly and nodded, but the smile fell away from his face almost immediately.

Matthew rolled forward and came to a stop. "Is something the matter?"

The earl gave a sigh and rubbed his forehead. When he dropped his hand, he made a frustrated gesture, taking in the portfolio on his desk. "Oh, nothing to..." He frowned, drifting off as he shot Matthew a speculative look.

Matthew frowned. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No..." Robert answered slowly. "Quite the opposite." He sat forward, regarding Matthew closely, then straightened again, looking back at his papers. "I've been terribly remiss."

"About what?"

"You ought to have a look at the books. I should hate for you to be required to take over as Trustee some day and be entirely unfamiliar with the state of things."

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "The state of things?"

"Yes, you know, the circumstances of the Estate, how things are done here, our responsibilities to our tenants and the like." Robert gestured towards the portfolio. "I didn't include a detailed knowledge of the Estate's finances in your earlier training, but I ought to, in the event I pass on before Edward comes of age."

"I doubt it will come to that," Matthew answered.

"Nevertheless." Robert sat back. "Actually, there's something you might be able to help me with now."

"What is it?"

Robert shrugged. "I've no head for this sort of thing. Whenever I look at a ledger, I just see trout—" he made a waving motion with his hand, "—swimming by."

Matthew stared at him.

Robert shrugged and gave a soft laugh. "No, I don't suppose you'd understand. You're a lawyer."

Matthew frowned. "Is there some trouble with the books?"

"No," Robert answered. "But Murray's been at me for years, sending me these notes. The firm sent them to my father, too. When I asked about one of them, my father just shook his head and dropped the paper in the bin. Murray has things backwards, but I haven't the patience to explain things well enough to quiet his complaints."

Matthew's frown deepened as a sinking sensation filled him. Conversations with Murray and Robert from years earlier returned to him now, and he rather suspected it was not Murray who had things backwards.

Matthew paused. If there was any possibility of preserving Downton for Edward and future generations, he must tread carefully. Whatever present mood Robert was in could pass without warning and the opportunity might be lost; as Trustee, Matthew had no real authority right now.

"What...would you like me to do?" Matthew asked.

Robert shrugged. "Take a look at Murray's note, review the ledgers—" Robert pointed at a series of numbered drawers to Matthew's left, "—I only keep the last decade's worth in here, but you shouldn't require even that much—and write a note explaining why he needn't be concerned. I'm happy to answer any questions you may have, but frankly, I doubt you'll have many. The books are fairly straightforward."

"One wonders why Murray is having any difficulty following them," Matthew replied carefully.

"Exactly." Robert gave a satisfied nod. "I knew you'd have the grasp of things."

Matthew frowned. "I'm not sure I'm the right man for the job. Perhaps if you hired a consultant..."

Robert put up a hand. "No, I'd rather not deal with a third party, if I can help it. They just tend to complicate matters. Better to have someone who has a vested interest in the family, someone whom I trust implicitly." He smiled.

Matthew lifted his chin. "I know you overheard the...disagreement...I had with Mary a few days ago. I hope this isn't some attempt at charity on your part, because I won't accept a farthing for the work."

Robert frowned and stood up. "Your expertise has value."

Matthew scowled and reached for the wheels of his chair.

Robert put out a hand. "I wasn't planning to offer you any compensation, Matthew. I had hoped we wouldn't need to discuss it, that you would understand it was simply a private family arrangement." Matthew sat back in his chair as Robert winced slightly, glancing away. "I find financial arrangements between family members rather...distasteful."

Matthew nodded. "So how is what you're asking me to do any different?"

"I'd rather hoped you'd view it as doing me a favour."

Matthew pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "Mm. Not as  _you_  doing  _me_  one?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"This isn't just a project to keep me busy, to... _distract_  me?"

Robert sighed, clasping his hands behind his back. "I'll admit that the desire to engage your interest did cross my mind just now, but this business with Murray has gone on long enough. You're much better suited to this sort of thing. Your attention to detail has always been admirable, and he seems to have a certain professional accord with you. Speak to him in his language, as it were, and I'm sure the issue will take care of itself."

The dressing gong sounded outside and Matthew paused, looking to the side with a frown.

Robert unclasped his hands and took a step forward, his voice softening. "I  _am_  concerned for you, my boy. I'll not hide that fact. I'm sorry I can't do more."

Matthew glanced up, then dropped his eyes to Robert's belt buckle, unable to look the earl in the eye. "Don't be." He raised his eyes again. "It will take a man who is more than I am now to follow you, even as a mere Trustee." He looked at the floor. "You have a proper heir. So don't think about me."

"My dear chap," Robert answered, his voice pained, and Matthew looked up at him. "How can you say that? I find it difficult to think about anything else."

Matthew's gaze fell and he looked into the middle distance, his chest tight as Robert moved past him.

"I hope you'll consider my request," the earl said, pausing at the door.

After a heartbeat, Matthew turned his head slightly and nodded.

"I'll see you at dinner." Robert stepped out.

Matthew frowned as he looked away.

* * *

When Robert went down the steps to the servants' hall after dinner that evening, he was relieved to find all the servants seated around the long table, eating supper together. It made the news that much easier to announce.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I—"

Everyone immediately pushed their chairs back and rose to their feet, drowning out his words in a thundering of chair legs hurriedly scraped across the floor. He waited until he could be heard again.

"—I've just heard news from the War Office and I thought you'd all like to know..." Everyone stood still, waiting on his words. He grinned. "...that the war is over!"

The room dissolved into wordless exclamations of joy, and everyone began clasping hands and hugging each other. Mrs Patmore's mouth dropped open with relief and then she briefly covered it with her hands before reaching to squeeze Daisy. Bates laughed and hugged Anna, who was smiling and fighting tears of happiness. Robert grinned and thought he might burst from happiness himself, for the third time this evening.

He raised his voice above the joyful din. "The ceasefire will begin at eleven o'clock on the morning of the eleventh of November."

Mrs Patmore gave him an affronted look. "Why can't it begin now?"

He chuckled along with the rest of the room.

"The eleven of the eleventh seems pretty tidy to me," Thomas said.

Robert nodded, still smiling. "We will mark the moment in the Great Hall and I expect all of you, including the kitchen staff and hall boys, everyone—" He gestured to take them all in. "—to be there." Giving a satisfied nod, he turned to Carson as everyone erupted into happy exclamations once more. "And Carson, would you please ensure that all the clocks are freshly tightened? We'll need one set up in the great hall for the occasion."

Carson nodded. "Of course, my lord."

When Robert stepped back, he was pleased to see that they were passing around a bottle of sherry, muttering "Cheers" as they filled their glasses and mugs, and grinning at each other. He walked quietly away, leaving the servants to their celebration, and smiled as he heard cups clinking together amidst a joyful chorus.

"To peace!"

* * *

**11 November 1918**

It was a curious thing how light he felt this morning, Matthew reflected, as he lifted his knee from the water and scrubbed absently at the underside of his thigh. He finished there and moved on to his calf, then the sole of his foot. It was a job he could do now without thinking about it overmuch. Although he couldn't feel it, dropping one leg on the other still left a nasty bruise, and as the muscles wasted away a bit more with each passing day, little remained to prevent the bones doing damage upon impact. So Matthew kept his knee in place with his elbow and went on with the business of washing up.

Despite the overcast day outside, the natural light that filled the room gave it a certain cheerful aspect. Matthew smiled as he carefully switched legs. Warm water, a new day, Mary lying beside him when he woke up each morning...

With the war finally at an end, they could begin to make plans. Many men would be returning to life at home, bearing the marks of their service. Surely there would be a place for him among their ranks. At least he hadn't been in a profession that required manual labour; he didn't envy the unfortunate situation for those who were. The years—or rather, the _decades_ —ahead promised plenty of hardship. The bloody clashes on the battlefields might be at an end, but the work of rebuilding and of achieving a new stability would be far-reaching and complex. The world was changing, moving forward, and he must change with it. He only wished he might be able to face it as a man, not as a cripple.

 _Why did You force me into this?_  he asked, without expecting a response. He was met only with the usual silence, so he went on scrubbing his armpits. Had he ever really heard anything at all, or had it merely been a comfortable delusion, one more thing stripped away by the hard realities of war?

He had so little left to offer Mary, but he would do his utmost not to let her down again. He would, at the very least, strive not be a burden to her. He could care for himself in most respects, he could move about the great house on his own—only the first floor, of course, but so much of the family's life took place in those rooms that surely it would be sufficient—and he was growing more capable every day, although—frustratingly—he still needed help to dress himself and to move from his chair to the bed and back. He wondered if he'd ever be able to make do without a valet. Certainly not if he wanted to make a living as a lawyer again. There would be no other way to navigate stairs, but the thought of being carried from place to place chafed at him.

Of course the prospect of moving to Manchester for work was a daunting one, but Mary was more than capable of negotiating in matters of business and managing the outfitting of a new home, he was certain. He smiled at the thought of the lengths she'd go to, without shame, to ensure his needs were accommodated. God help the poor soul who tried to stand in her way.

"Thank You for such a woman," he murmured, chuckling.

 _You're welcome_ , came the answering quiet laugh.

Matthew lifted his head, pausing in his scrubbing. He blinked. He waited.

The wet cloth in his hand dripped a time or two, and there was a faint gurgling of water as it escaped past the plug at the bottom of the bathtub.

He sighed and lifted the cloth again.

_What are you waiting for?_

He frowned and paused. "Do You really have to ask?"

_Do you?_

Matthew began to wash his arms with angry swipes.

"You aren't going to explain Yourself," he growled. "I'm just expected to accept it. 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord'."

_Yes._

Matthew sat back against the cool side of the tub with a huff, dropping his hands into the water.

"And that's  _it?_  That's all I'm to expect? For  _this?_ " He waved at his useless legs, one now flopped on to the other. He hadn't even noticed it fall under the water. He scowled at the pathetic sight.

_For now._

Matthew lifted his gaze and glared at the taps.

"Blessed be the name of the Lord," he muttered.

He felt an answering chuckle.  _So dramatic._

He scowled.

 _Your legs and your manhood are not all that I've taken from you, Matthew._  ' _Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire.'_

Matthew frowned. "What do you mean?"

 _Listen to Mary_.

There was a knock; Matthew gave a start.

"Are you finished with your bath, sir?" Bates's muffled voice came through the bathroom door. "Sergeant Barrow needs to be on his way; there's a great deal to be done before the ceremony."

"Yes, of course," Matthew called, frowning in surprise. "Come in."

The two men entered the room, Bates carrying bath sheets and Thomas an apron.

"Good morning, sir," Thomas said, somewhat stiffly, and he lifted the apron over his head.

"Good morning," Matthew replied. He twisted to look up at Thomas, who was tying the apron behind his back. "To what do I owe this honour?"

Bates gave his stick an apologetic shake. "I'm sorry, sir. After the incident this morning, I thought you might prefer an able-bodied man to assist you with this task."

Thomas shot a glance at Bates, who pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Matthew glanced at Thomas's gloved hand and then met his eyes, which, surprisingly, held a flicker of amusement in them. Matthew shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. "Look at us three: there's not an able-bodied man among us. Thank you for coming, Sergeant. I know this is not a task within your normal duties."

Thomas straightened, flexing his gloved hand, and gave a curt nod. "Mr Bates required assistance; I was happy to help."

Bates made a barely-suppressed sound and set his jaw as Thomas stepped smartly to the side of the bathtub, taking his place behind Matthew.

"I'm not upset about this morning, Bates," Matthew said, as Bates leaned his stick against the wall and laid two of the bath sheets over the seat and backrest of Matthew's chair. "Truly. I want to learn how to do even this procedure by myself; I may as well begin now."

"Certainly, sir," Bates replied, as he glanced along the floor before stepping carefully to the side of the tub with a third bath sheet outstretched. "But it should be by your choice, not because of my incompetence."

Matthew leaned forward and lifted his arms, giving Thomas a strong frame to grasp. Thomas braced himself against the edge of the tub as he leaned forward.

"You're not incompetent, Bates," Matthew said. "There could have been a bit of water on the floor. And it can't be easy lifting a grown man by yourself with only one strong leg." Matthew nodded as Thomas got a firm grip under his upper arms. "I should hate to be the cause of you putting your back out." He glanced to the side as he fixed his hands securely on the edges of the tub. "Ready?"

"Ready, sir," Thomas replied, close behind Matthew's ear.

Matthew gave a nod and heaved, pushing up quickly against the drag of the water as Thomas's strong arms helped lift him out of the bathtub. Thomas grunted, but his hold was firm, and Bates quickly lifted Matthew's legs, draping the bath sheet over his lap before getting a second arm underneath them. Bates and Thomas shifted Matthew a step to the side, bringing him towards his chair, and Matthew reached for it—

Thomas gave a wordless cry and before Matthew had a chance to react, he was falling. Some part of his lower body glanced off the outside edge of the tub and twisted him as he crashed down on to the bathroom floor, landing hard on Thomas's leg. Pain radiated through Matthew's arm, side, and back, and he lay on the cold, hard tiles for several seconds, breathing through it.

"Oh, God, sir, I'm so sorry!" Thomas was saying, trying to scramble up but limited in his movements by Matthew's weight on him. Matthew winced and pushed up enough for Thomas to pull away. Bates bent to lift Matthew, but Matthew just waved a hand, still trying to catch his breath as the pain slowly subsided. The tiles under him were wet and cold, the bath sheet protecting his privacy crumpled beside him on the floor, but he didn't care a whit for that.

His heart still pounding, he nodded to Bates, who, with Thomas's help, carefully lifted him into his chair. Matthew winced as he settled himself. This was going to leave some bruises. Bates went to fetch another bath sheet from the shelf beside his stick.

"I'm sorry, sir," Thomas repeated as he straightened.

"No harm done," Matthew replied, lifting his hand. "It's not an easy manoeuvre." He shot Bates a weak smile as the valet draped the fresh bath sheet over Matthew's lap. "We've had our own share of adventures, haven't we, Bates?"

Bates's warm smile relaxed Matthew immensely. "We have indeed, sir. You have the patience of a saint."

Matthew laughed. "I was about to say the same of you."

He looked at Thomas, who was tugging at his clothes to straighten them under the apron—but only with one hand. The other hand, the gloved one, was flexing this way and that. When Thomas noticed Matthew's gaze, he quickly pulled the gloved hand behind his back. His black hair, normally combed neatly back, now fell forward over his temples, shaking with his movements. He swallowed as he straightened, and looked away.

Bates crouched beside the tub and began cleaning up the puddle with the fallen bath sheet, and Thomas stepped aside to give him room. Matthew quickly dried his hands and rolled his chair back for the same reason, then looked up as Thomas went to the door.

"Do you have further need of me?" Thomas asked, not meeting Matthew's eyes.

"No," Bates answered. "Thank you for your help."

Thomas turned away, his mouth set in a flat line and his eyes remote.

Matthew lifted his chin. "Will you help me again next time, Sergeant Barrow?"

Thomas looked back, his eyes widening as he met Matthew's gaze. After a moment, he nodded, then quickly turned and went out.

When they heard the bedroom door close behind Thomas, Bates rose slowly, steadying himself on the side of the bathtub, and he pulled the chain to drain the water.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, as he turned around. "Perhaps I didn't check to make sure the floor was dry before we began."

"It was dry," Matthew replied, towelling himself off with the bath sheet that had been on his lap. "I saw you check."

Bates nodded. "We'll manage it perfectly next time."

Matthew smiled. "I know we will."

He settled back against the chair as Bates came around it, dropping the used bath sheet in the laundry hamper beside the door. The valet picked up his stick as he took the handles of Matthew's chair, and he began to wheel him out of the bathroom. Matthew turned his head. "I meant what I said about your back, Bates. You don't have to do this alone. I can teach myself to do more."

Bates left Matthew beside the bed and crossed to the wardrobe. "I know you can, sir. I've been thinking about what we might do. Perhaps some sort of frame could be built around the bathtub."

"I shouldn't want it to get in the way when Lady Mary uses the bathroom," Matthew said with a frown.

Bates nodded. "I've given that some thought, as well. I found a design for a removable frame. Mrs Crawley was kind enough to lend me a book on devices to assist with physiotherapy." Bates chuckled. "She thought some of the therapy techniques out-of-date, but I doubt that will have much bearing on the carpentry."

Matthew laughed. "I should imagine not. Thank you for going to such lengths, Bates."

The valet shook his head as he returned to Matthew and laid his uniform out on the bed. "It's nothing of note, sir, I assure you. Will you be needing anything else this morning?"

Matthew glanced at his new portable shaving kit on his bedside table. Mary had purchased it from a catalogue a few weeks earlier and it had arrived only yesterday. The kit contained a mirror embedded inside the cover, so Matthew could set it up at whatever height he needed. As he could no longer see his reflection in the bathroom mirror, which was still mounted at standing height—at his insistence, for Mary's convenience—the new kit seemed the perfect solution. He was eager to try it and he smiled as he lifted it on to his lap.

"No, thank you, Bates."

With a nod, Bates went out and quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.

Matthew wheeled himself back into the bathroom and set the kit on the low shelf beside the sink, smiling as he opened it and began his ablutions. Mary had gone to the entirely unnecessary expense of having his name engraved on the kit, but she hadn't done it for merely utilitarian purposes. Each time his eyes lit on the "Matthew Crawley, Esq." in gold-embossed lettering on the cover, it made him smile. Despite his protests that he wasn't a barrister or of gentle birth—"If  _upper_  middle class isn't gentle birth, I don't know what is," his mother had insisted, as she witnessed the opening of the parcel—Mary believed he had every right to the title.

"But it doesn't  _mean_  anything," he'd said.

"It means you are a man worthy of respect," Mary had replied, accepting a cup of tea and a saucer from Carson, who nodded his approval of her words. As Isobel leaned away to say something to Cora, Mary had leaned closer to Matthew, lowering her voice. "And as you seem so insistent on my allowing you to be my  _servant_..." He blinked at the suggestiveness in her tone. "...a 'squire' would suit perfectly, don't you think?"

He swallowed. How did she managed to stir him, still? His skin tingled and he smirked at her.

"Open it, Matthew," his mother had commanded. "We should all like to admire it."

Chuckling, Matthew had obeyed, delighted by the discovery of the embedded mirror and the thoughtfulness of Mary's gift.

"Thank you, darling," he'd said with a warm smile.

She had merely sipped her tea and given him a quiet nod, but he'd resolved to properly show her his gratitude at the first opportunity, and he had done so quite decidedly that evening, when they were finally alone together. As it turned out, she'd had plans of her own to give him a thorough massage, so they'd passed a very enjoyable hour together. He'd even had the temerity to prevent her returning immediately to sleep after she'd roused to relieve herself in the middle of the night.

"Why should our habits be any different now?" he'd asked with a grin, and proceeded to ravish her for the second time that night, enjoying her surrender to his patient ministrations. Her moans and little gasps had made him feel so thoroughly  _alive_ , and he loved her for it.

 _Yes_ , he thought, as he carefully ran the safety razor down his cheek, pleased with the smooth lines it left.  _We can do this._

He glanced at his wristwatch, which was currently stood up in a compartment of the shaving kit. It was nearly nine-thirty. There was plenty of time for him to ready himself before the ceremony. He looked forward to the armistice with great anticipation.

He smiled. They would move on, together.

* * *

The sky remained stubbornly overcast; everything still and quiet outside, except for a slight breeze. Inside, everyone had lined up in the great hall, the Earl of Grantham in the back center of the room with his family behind him, the household and nursing staff lined up along one side of the room, and the convalescing officers on the other. Matthew sat in the corner in his chair, joining the family's line with the officers' line.

Robert stood straight and tall in the midst of the sombre crowd, his expression heavy with the weight of the impending moment.

"I think, while the clock strikes, we should all make a silent prayer, to mark the finish of this terrible war, and what that means for each and every one of us," he said. "Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks."

Silence reigned for several long seconds, and then the small standing clock on the table behind Robert chimed the hour. On the first stroke, all the men in uniform immediately shifted from parade rest to stand at attention; those in wheelchairs sat up as straight as they could manage, arms stiffened from shoulders to knees.

Everyone remained still, some with their heads bowed, but all with their eyes open, as the clock slowly chimed the hour.

When the clock finished chiming, there was a pause, and then Robert relaxed from his stiff posture and briefly closed his eyes. He opened them and glanced from one side of the room to the other, addressing the gathered crowd.

"Thank you, everyone. Remember, this is not just the end of a long war, but it is the dawn of a new age."

Matthew looked away, silently bidding good-bye to the men he'd lost, and knowing he would never forget them.

"God bless you all," Robert finished.

The crowd broke ranks as everyone returned to their daily routines. Matthew watched Mary gather up her handbag as Anna approached with her hat and coat. Mary would be back in time for tea. As proud as he was of her work at the hospital, he wished she could remain at home, and he looked forward to the weekend. Perhaps they could go for a drive on Saturday. It was far too cold for a picnic, but Matthew was eager to leave Downton Abbey, if only for a few hours. He'd been at the great house for two months now, and a change of scenery, particularly with Mary to share it, would be a most welcome change.

He watched her walk away, her tall, elegant form moving gracefully through the great hall. He saw the eyes that followed her, the appreciative looks, the nods of respect, the way the officers automatically parted to let her through, and his chest swelled with pride and gratitude. That he should have the privilege of being her husband: he swallowed and blinked. Her beauty was undeniable, but he knew her more thoroughly than anyone else in the room did, and he treasured the knowledge that her external beauty was exceeded by the beauty of her soul.

 _Thank You_ , he thought.

Warmth filled him, and he drew in a deep, contented breath as he watched her step outside to where Branson waited with the car.

Bates approached, coming around behind Matthew's chair and taking the handles. He began to push Matthew across the great hall towards the side passage that led to his dressing room. Matthew preferred to complete his daily course of physio in privacy, now. It wasn't much fun, but it undoubtedly enabled him to better care for himself and he would not be slack in his practice of it.

The chair bumped slightly over the edge of the carpet—

—and a sudden tingling bolt shot down the length of his left leg. He stared at it.

" _My God_ ," he breathed. He glanced from one leg to the other in shock, waiting for something more—

Bates pulled up short. "Is something wrong, sir?"

Matthew looked at his legs and tried to move them: first one, then the other, but there was not a single twitch. His heart fell. "No, nothing." He frowned, turning his head slightly. "Bates, if I felt..."

Matthew swallowed and cut himself off.

"If you felt what, sir?"

But he shook his head, looking straight ahead again and swallowing, fighting back tears.  _Oh God, don't torture me with hope._

"It doesn't matter. Not yet." He gave his legs one last, quick, shifting glance before forcing himself to raise his eyes. "Not until I feel it again."

As Bates resumed pushing him across the room, Matthew frowned.  _What had that been? Did it mean anything?_  Surely not; his condition was permanent, unrecoverable, wasn't it?

_Lord?_

But he heard nothing in response.

* * *

"Oh, there you are. Papa was looking for you earlier," Mary said, as she entered the bedroom and laid a book on her bedside table.

Matthew made a noncommittal noise and she looked across the bed to where he sat in his chair, facing his bedside table, his lamp casting a small pool of yellow light in front of him. It would be time to dress for dinner soon; the overcast day had faded into a dull gloom at this hour. He was looking down at a small piece of paper, a slight frown creasing his features.

He looked up at her as she crossed round the bed. She put her hands on his shoulders, giving the tight muscles a deep massage with her thumbs. He dropped his head with a light groan.

"What's that?" Mary asked, looking down at the note, which had fallen open on his lap, where he held it with slack fingers. It contained only two words:  _Thank you_

He sighed, lifting his head again, and she changed the positions of her hands as she continued working on his shoulders.

"Just a note from a friend," Matthew replied. "He...died during the war."

Mary nodded, swallowing, and she softened her grip, finally settling her palms on his upper arms. Matthew rarely spoke of his experiences or the men he'd served with; she knew not to press. She would leave if he wished to be alone, and she could return when Carson rang the dressing gong.

"Oh, don't stop, please," Matthew sighed. "That felt glorious."

With a chuckle, she returned to her massage.

"How was your day?" he asked, dropping his head again, allowing it to roll loosely from side to side as she worked.

"The usual," she replied. "Clarkson's had word that we'll be receiving one last group of wounded men."

Matthew was silent, but she could feel the tension in his body at her words. She angled herself so she could work at a particularly stubborn knot, and Matthew groaned slightly in response, finally releasing a long breath. After a moment, he raised his head and straightened himself in his chair, and Mary lifted her hands away from his shoulders.

He gave another long sigh as Mary sat on the bed, facing him.

"What is it?" she asked.

He frowned down at the note in his hand again, then tucked it back between the pages of his journal, closing the book and leaning forward to place it in the top drawer of his bedside table. He sat back, frowning into the middle distance.

"My faith failed me," he finally said. "When I needed it most...when I needed  _Him_  the most, He just...wasn't there."

Mary listened, folding her hands in her lap. She had no answers; she was certainly no expert on religion. A brief thought of a prayer from time to time surely didn't qualify one for sainthood.

Matthew drew in a deep breath, let it out. "Now...I'm not so sure. Perhaps He was there the whole time, and I simply refused to listen." He frowned. "I was just so  _angry_."

Mary swallowed and nodded, looking down at her hands.

"I blamed Him for the war, you know," Matthew said.

Mary looked up. "It's difficult not to, I suppose."

He frowned. "I don't know what to think, any more. Whose fault was it?"

"Matthew..." Mary shook her head.

"I know," he replied, looking down at his hands before he finally turned to her. "Fixing blame is a fruitless—and pointless—exercise. We were all damn fools. Me, most especially." He twisted, reaching for her hands. "I must ask your forgiveness—no, don't shake your head at me—"

"Matthew—"

"I should have listened to you when you asked me not to go," he continued, pressing her hand. "I was blinded, too wrapped up in my ideals to listen to sense." His face twisted with pain and he gestured at his lower body. "And look what I've done to us. Childless. All because of my foolishness."

 _It wasn't your fault, darling_ , she thought, but she couldn't tell him now. It would only burden him unnecessarily. She would bear it alone.

She sat forward, pulling his chair closer to herself, angling it so that his footrest just poked under the bedframe and his knees were beside hers. She took his hands in both of hers, clasping them as she leaned towards him.

"Listen to me," she said firmly. "I do not blame you for this. I do not blame God for this. I do not even blame the Germans for this. It just is, Matthew. Who knows why things happen, and there's no use in torturing yourself trying to figure it out."

"Mary..." He leaned forward; she met him, and they rested their foreheads together, closing their eyes.

"I don't think you need my forgiveness, Matthew."

The breath he drew in was shaky, but they had cried for long enough; their eyes remained dry now.

"I love you, Mary, my beautiful wife, my darling," he whispered.

She tilted her head up, pressed forward another inch—coming to the very edge of the mattress—and softly kissed his lips. When she pulled away, Matthew drew his hands from her grasp and straightened in his chair. Mary moved back to a more secure position on the bed.

"You told me a while ago that I had forgiven you so thoroughly that I helped you to begin to forgive yourself," he said. "What did you mean?"

Mary looked to the side, swallowed, and gave a slight frown. "Do you remember what you said on our wedding night? After...everything?"

Matthew smiled. "As I recall, I carried on for quite a while."

Mary glanced down with a chuckle, then met his eyes. "You said that your forgiveness can't heal me, but His can."

Matthew nodded slowly, frowning in curiosity. "...yes?"

She grinned.

Matthew's face cleared, a tentative smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Truly?" He tilted his head. "What happened?"

Mary's smile faltered. Somehow, talking about this was nearly as difficult as discussing the intimacies of their lovemaking, but she could see how closely Matthew was listening.

Something in her chest trembled as she searched for the right words, and she clasped and unclasped her hands. She began slowly.

"Each time I took out your letters to re-read them, I found myself thinking about the passages of Scripture you mentioned. Sometimes I re-read the passages, too, just to recall your arguments, or questions, or teasing." Mary met his eyes briefly; he was still attentive, so she pressed on. "Sometimes, to better understand a passage, I'd read what came before...and sometimes I'd read on past what you mentioned, because I was curious. Much was familiar—but a shocking amount was entirely new to me. Mr Travis certainly never mentioned any of it in his sermons." Mary blushed. "Have you ever  _read_  the entirety of the Song of Solomon?"

Matthew chuckled. "Oh yes. That." His smile became crooked and then it fell entirely as he looked down, closing his eyes. Mary started to reach for his knee, then quickly recovered, grateful that he hadn't seen her movement. She lifted her hand to cup his cheek.

"I'm so sorry, my love," she said softly, and he opened his eyes with a look of pained resignation.

He pressed his lips together, giving her a thin smile. "I know." Reaching up to caress her hand, he brought it back down and held it gently in his lap. "Please, continue." His smile warmed. "I want to hear your story."

"All right." She swallowed and looked past him, taking strength from the encouraging warmth of his hand on hers. "One day, I was reading something that I must have skimmed over before: the lineage of Christ, given in the Book of Matthew. But it caught me this time. I noticed that there were five women mentioned in it."

"That's unusual." Matthew smiled.

"Yes, unfortunately," Mary answered dryly, raising her eyebrows. "Well, in any case, I looked at each of the five names: Thamar, Rachab, Ruth, 'the wife of Urias'—"

"Bathsheba."

"Right. And of course, Mary, the mother of Jesus." Mary sat up straighter, expectant, and Matthew narrowed his eyes, his mouth tugging up with happy curiosity. "Don't you see?" Mary demanded. "They're all women whom society deemed 'unworthy'!"

At this pronouncement, Matthew tilted his head, his frown deepening. "Thamar...seduced her father-in-law, Judah," he murmured, and Mary nodded. "Rachab was a prostitute."

"She wasn't even an Israelite, and neither was Ruth!"

"...but they both feared God..." Matthew blinked. "Bathsheba committed adultery with King David..."

Mary was smiling. "And Mary?"

Matthew frowned, shaking his head. "She didn't do anything wrong."

Mary was nearly wriggling in her excitement. "She didn't  _do_  anything wrong, but everyone  _thought_  she must have! Jesus was born before Joseph and Mary were even wed!"

"But they were betrothed," Matthew pointed out.

"Not the same thing," Mary answered in a clipped, triumphant tone. "I can assure you that polite society would have viewed it as a  _world_  of difference. Everyone would know Jesus was a bastard."

" _There's_  a statement you don't hear every day," Matthew observed with a half-smile.

"But it's true."

He frowned. "I never thought of it that way before."

Mary was smiling. "I'm not wrong, am I?"

"No..." Matthew shook his head slowly, a smile dawning on his face. "Very clever."

Mary smirked at him.

"So," he said, lifting his chin. "How did this discovery...help?"

She smiled. "Don't you see? God gave each of those women a place of honour: the privilege of being in the lineage of Christ, and even an explicit mention in the genealogy!" She sobered, looking down at her hands. "If He didn't reject  _them_ ," she said quietly, "then I can believe He's not rejecting me."

Matthew released a shuddering breath and she looked up at him, seeing tears in his eyes.

"When did you discover this?" he asked. "Why did you never write to tell me?"

She frowned a moment. "More than a year ago. The summer before last, perhaps? I don't recall precisely. We didn't write so often that summer, with you travelling across England. Perhaps you'd come home again after the recruitment drive, and I'd meant to tell you, but there wasn't time? I'm not sure. And then it slipped my mind."

He smiled, blinking, as he took her other hand in his free one, and he let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

"What?" she asked, edging closer to him. She bumped against his knee without meaning to and jostled his leg, knocking his foot towards the inside edge of its footrest. He let go of her hands to lift his leg and put it back in a secure position, but his smile was unbroken.

"All that time," he began, "when I prayed for you, and I didn't know what to ask, or if my prayers were even being heard, He was answering them. When I'd lost my faith and thought He must not care, not in the face of so much—" Matthew swallowed and looked away, keeping his composure. He lifted his chin as his voice quieted. "—so much loss." He met Mary's gaze. "He was still working, healing..."

Mary smiled.

"Thank you for putting up with me," Matthew said. "I must have made these last months miserable for you."

She straightened, smirking. "I didn't exactly endure it without a fight."

He chuckled. "True. And right. 'Faithful are the wounds of a friend', after all..." He looked down with a wry nod. "I hope I might warrant some kisses as well."

She laughed and rose. "Does now suit?"

"Perfectly." He grinned up at her and she bent down, pressing her lips firmly to his, their fit familiar and warm and a great relief. "Thank you," he said, as she drew away. "You give me more than I deserve."

"Never," she replied, suppressing a smile. "You get exactly what you deserve."

Matthew laughed and shook his head, his eyes following her as she straightened. "My generous, patient wife. You'll make a—" he frowned and cut himself off.

He'd been about to say  _a wonderful mother someday_ , but of course that was impossible. What had come over him? He frowned and looked away, mortified. All of his earlier levity instantly fled and he fought his internal rage at God once again. Would this torture never cease? Wasn't the burden already enough to bear? Why did something in him persist in maintaining this cheerful forgetfulness about the future? It only made the present more excruciating to bear.

Mary looked at him with a slight wrinkle in her brow. "A what?"

"I'm sorry. Never mind." He shot her a quick smile, not quite meeting her eyes. "Do you want me to leave so you can dress?"

"No," Mary answered, still giving him a curious look.

When he did not explain himself, she finally moved away, her hand drifting across his shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, grateful for her silent acceptance.

"I was just coming in to select a dress," she said. "Do you have any requests?" She smiled as she disappeared into the closet.

He chuckled. "I'm rather partial to the sheer red one," he called.

Mary popped her head out, giving him a look. "I'm not going to wear  _that_  to dinner, Matthew."

He blinked, frowning, then laughed. "No, not  _that_  one. The other one: the one with the black lace...bodice?"

Mary tilted her head and disappeared. She stepped out a moment later, holding up a full-length gown. "This one?" When he nodded, she rolled her eyes. "It's not sheer, Matthew. It's perfectly, properly opaque."

He grinned, turning his chair as he imagined her in it. "Yes, but I can clearly see the shape of your arms and the lovely curves of your shoulders when you wear it. So: sheer. Will you wear the other one later tonight?"

She nodded, blushing slightly, and he smiled. She crossed the room to hang the gown on the hook beside her vanity, then sat down and began removing her daytime jewelry.

Matthew settled back to watch her, content. She loosened her hair from its practical bun, the style she usually wore when she worked at the hospital, and the dark waves tumbled down her back.

"How was  _your_  day?" she asked, picking up her hairbrush and glancing at him in the mirror.

"I've spent much of it thinking," he answered.

"That sounds ominous."

"No, not terribly. Robert has asked me to handle a small matter involving Murray."

"Papa's solicitor?" Mary frowned. "Whatever for?"

Matthew shrugged. "I'm not exactly sure. Robert said he hasn't the patience for it."

She lifted her brows and tilted her head, continuing to brush her hair. "Do you?"

He drew in a breath. "If what I suspect is true, I don't have the luxury of impatience."

Mary turned slowly from the vanity, lowering her hairbrush, and she frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember what I told you, once, about my fears for the future of the Estate and my concerns about Robert's judgement?"

Mary nodded.

He set his jaw. "I think my fears may be coming true."

"Oh dear, I hope not." Mary frowned. She looked around the room, taking it in, then focused on him. "Will you do it? Will you help Papa with this matter?"

Matthew's own frown deepened. "I don't know what I can do, if anything." At her glance, he bit his lip, nodding. "But if I can do something, I must."

"For Edward," Mary agreed, her face creased with worry. "And Papa. He would never forgive himself if all were to be lost; he would live out the rest of his days in humiliation and grief!"

Matthew nodded. "I know." He sighed and looked away. "I'll speak to him after dinner, and accept his offer if it still stands." He lifted his eyes to Mary's again. "Say a prayer for me, would you? This might not be a 'small' matter at all, and convincing your father to make changes to his way of life will not be easy."

"Of course, darling. But do you truly think it will come to that?"

"I do," Matthew replied heavily.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come," Mary called, and Anna appeared, Bates on her heels.

"Are you ready to dress, my lady, Mr Crawley?" Anna asked.

Mary blinked; she hadn't heard anyone address Matthew as 'Mr Crawley' in so long that it felt strange to her ears. But she smiled:  _the war was over_.

"Yes, thank you," Mary answered, meeting his eyes for a moment, knowing that he was thinking the same thing. Then Matthew nodded up at Bates and rolled himself into his dressing room. Bates followed, pulling the door closed as he went through.

Mary looked at her reflection in the mirror, wondering what the future held. Although she was glad her father had found some occupation for Matthew, she was uncertain about what it might bring to light and she did not relish the prospect of finding out.

 _Dear Lord_ , she thought, as Anna walked past her and began to prepare,  _please guide Matthew and Papa both._

They would take each day as it came and, whatever it brought, they would face it together.

 


	27. Chapter 27

_27_

**Late November 1918**

Matthew glanced up when Mary entered the library.

"You're back." He sighed. "Good. I could use a brief respite."

"Mama sent me to fetch you for tea," she replied, crossing to him.

He frowned in surprise and glanced at his wristwatch before making another notation.

"How goes the Augean task?" Mary smiled as she seated herself in her father's chair beside the desk.

Matthew chuckled, giving a wry shake of his head. "I think I have a better grasp of the shape of things."

Mary sobered. "Good news, I hope."

Matthew continued writing, pressing his lips together. Finally he capped his pen, tucking it in the pocket of his suit coat, and sat back with a sigh.

"I'm afraid not," he answered. He looked at her and smiled. "But enough of that. How was your day?"

She shrugged. "Things are going smoothly. Dr Clarkson has asked me to slow down the restocking, since we don't expect more men to arrive." Mary smoothed her skirts. "He expects we'll be back to pre-war levels by February."

Matthew eyed her. "Will you stay on?"

"Dr Clarkson managed well enough without me before the war; I don't suppose he'll need me now."

Matthew rolled his chair back from the desk to face her. "Do you  _want_  to continue your work at the hospital?"

She looked away with a slight frown. "I don't know. I don't relish the prospect of going back to merely spending my days fitting dresses and paying calls. But unlike Sybil, I don't have any particular passion for the medical profession."

He nodded, smiling. "She does have a gift."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure Papa would see it that way. Speaking of which—" she glanced at the desk, "—what are you going to tell him?"

Matthew frowned, following her gaze. "Nothing...yet."

"Have you spoken to Murray?"

Matthew tilted his head reproachfully at her. "I could hardly telephone him and have the conversation in the hall, in full hearing of anyone who might pass by. And I don't want to write to him until I have something definite to say."

Mary frowned. "I should think that merely agreeing with his assessment would be sufficient."

"No, Murray knows what he's about." Matthew shook his head. "What I need is to be able to offer a counter-proposal. A viable alternative to Robert's current approach. Merely joining in a chorus of criticism won't achieve anything useful." Matthew sighed, his thumbs tapping on the wheels of his chair. "My effectiveness is limited." He gestured at the ledgers that lay open before him. "I know almost nothing about farming, and the books only tell part of the story. To really get the full picture, I'd need to visit the farms."

"Then visit the farms," Mary answered with a shrug.

Matthew frowned, gesturing at his chair in frustration. "How?"

"Have Branson take you around. He did a fine job on our outing, didn't he?"

"Yes, but this could take weeks. Could I really ask that of him? He's not been hired to be a nursemaid."

She smiled. "It's not him you ought to be concerned about asking. Mama and Papa prefer to have the car at their disposal."

"Good point," Matthew replied, giving a brief chuckle. "I'll speak with Robert."

"What will you tell him? He might object to your poking around, stirring up the tenants and asking uncomfortable questions."

Matthew frowned. "I hadn't considered that."

Mary pursed her lips and tilted her head. "You could say that to answer Murray properly, you need to be confident of all the details."

"Mm. That's very politic."

"The car is the least of your concerns," Mary replied, rising to her feet. "If you create trouble with the tenants, Papa won't allow you to continue."

"What do you suggest?" he asked, turned his head towards her as she angled his chair and began to push him towards the door.

"I don't know," she answered. "But you must find a way to get the information you need without ruffling any feathers."

Matthew's frown deepened as they went out of the library.

* * *

Matthew glanced across the sitting room to where Robert stood beside Cora after dinner. After reassuring himself that Robert was out of earshot, he leaned towards Anthony, speaking in a quiet tone. "I'm just at something of a loss."

Anthony frowned, keeping his voice low as well. "But surely being the Trustee doesn't require anything of you."

"No, not yet, but Robert has asked me to familiarize myself with more of the workings of the estate, so I'll be prepared if I'm ever to take on those responsibilities."

"I could recommend a book or two, certainly," Anthony replied. "But for the current market prices, you'll need to obtain a circular."

"Where would I find one?" Matthew asked. "If Robert hasn't subscribed to one, that is."

Anthony smiled. "Telephone me. I'll send Marsters over with the last year's worth. Although I should warn you that I don't expect the current prices to hold for long, now that the war is over."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Anthony waved his hand dismissively and reached for his glass.

Matthew shifted. "How would I determine the productive potential of a farm? Aside from looking at who is in arrears, there's no way to determine who is doing well and who is just barely getting by."

"I would expect all of them to be in a good position now, given how food costs have increased during the war."

"You'd think so," Matthew replied slowly. "But that doesn't seem to be the case."

Anthony frowned. "Well, short of asking them for a tallying of their books—which Robert, as landlord, is well within his rights to do—" At Matthew's look, Anthony chuckled and continued. "—you could evaluate the health of the fields."

"How would I do that?"

Anthony shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. "Just look at them."

Matthew opened his mouth to ask for further explanation, but paused when Robert drew up beside them, chuckling.

"That boy..." he was saying as he shook his head, a fond smile on his face.

"Edward?" Anthony asked, looking up at him. Robert took his seat, crossing his legs and settling back with a comfortable sigh.

"Nanny's begun teaching him to read," Robert replied. "This morning, he found me in my dressing room and he stood in the middle of the floor with his arms akimbo—" Robert made a quick attempt at mimicking Edward's pose and expression, and Anthony and Matthew chuckled. "—the picture of a little lord, and he looks at me with a deep frown on his face. 'Yes, Edward?' I asked. 'Papa,' he says, 'What's a match-aiyne?'" Robert relaxed in the chair, putting a frown of confusion on his face. "'A what?' I asked. 'A match-aiyne', he repeats, as if I'm being obtuse." Robert chuckled. "I had no idea what he was about. He eventually had to drag me into the nursery, where he showed me his picture-book. He'd managed to sound out 'machine'!" Robert beamed.

Anthony chuckled. "Ah, the vagaries of the English tongue."

"He's a clever little chap," Matthew said with a grin.

Anthony smiled. "Harry continually surprises me. And Sylvia! I had to pry her off the side of a bookcase last week. She'd climbed halfway up it! She's forever climbing things. Have you ever tried to lift a squirming toddler off a shelf with only one arm?" He shook his head, chuckling.

"Where was her nanny?" Robert asked with a frown.

"Taking her lunch," Anthony replied, still grinning. "Edith and I can manage our children long enough to allow her to eat."

"Are you certain?" Matthew asked, and Anthony shook his head wryly, looking down with a smile on his face.

Robert gave a contented sigh. "I'm damned glad the war is over. I'm eager to get on with the business of living. Thank God for children. They require us to move on with them."

Anthony sobered and nodded as Matthew swallowed, looking away. Robert drew in a breath and straightened, his glance moving quickly from Matthew to Anthony, who merely pressed his lips together, then attempted a smile.

"Matthew tells me you've been putting him through an ordeal."

Robert frowned and looked at Matthew. "What's this?"

Matthew had lifted his head at Anthony's words and he waved Anthony off. "No, it's nothing of the kind. It's just a steep learning curve. I'm rather enjoying it, actually."

Robert shifted, his eyes narrowing.

"I think it's wise, what you're doing," Anthony continued, looking at Robert. "Perhaps I ought to call Hurley in and make sure he's up to date with the latest changes I've been making to my own estate. I'd just assumed he'd be able to pick up in my stead—" Anthony shot a glance at Matthew. "—but I realise now there are a great many things I've discussed with Edith, but have never committed to paper."

"Ah." Robert nodded. "Yes. You never know what's coming."

"That's true enough," Matthew murmured, glancing across the room to where Mary sat with her sisters. "Speaking of being prepared, Robert, I wondered if you might let me monopolise Branson's time for the next few days."

Robert frowned. "Whatever for?"

Matthew tilted his head, making a small gesture with his hands. "I can only learn so much from looking at the books. I'd like to make a small tour of some of the farms, try to get a fuller sense of things."

Robert regarded him, still frowning slightly, but then he glanced at Anthony and put on a smile. "Yes, I suppose that would be fine. You'll need to check with Cora and the girls, of course, but I don't see any reason why not."

"Thank you." Matthew inclined his head.

"Do you plan to speak to anyone?" Robert asked.

"No, I don't think it will come to that." Matthew raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I don't want to ruffle any feathers."

Robert seemed to relax slightly. "Ah, good. Well, speak to Jarvis about it, in any event."

"As long as you don't mind," Matthew replied.

Robert made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Of course not." He looked at Anthony. "So will you and Edith be joining us for Christmas this year?"

Anthony's face wrinkled into a wide smile. "I think we will. My sister will be in London again for the winter Season, but last year's travel with the children was rather more tiring than not. I think Edith wants a quieter Yuletide."

Matthew listened with only half an ear as Robert and Anthony discussed the family's holiday plans, his mind whirling with more pressing questions and plans of his own.

* * *

Across the room, Sybil frowned, still feeling strangely uncomfortable in her gown and gloves. She'd been out of sorts all evening, as the family had eaten dinner and conversation had flowed around her, never drawing her in. She didn't know what had come over her, but after her father's announcement at tea-time that the house would 'finally be theirs, once again' in only two months' time, she'd found herself wondering what would become of her. Her ideas of what gave her life meaning had changed because of her work during the war, but what did that imply?

"Isobel seems to have given up her plans for the convalescent home," Edith observed, glancing over to where the three older women sat. "What's this about 'the plight of the refugees'?"

"I'm not sure," Mary replied. "It appears to be a new development." She smirked. "I can't help but notice that Mama and Granny seem much relieved."

"They  _are_  showing a great deal more interest in this topic, aren't they?" Edith chuckled.

"When the only requirement of them is a sympathetic ear and a chequebook, they're much more amiable." Mary arched an eyebrow as she took a sip of her drink.

"Still, it begs the question," Edith continued. "Who will look after the officers when we close our doors? I would not judge many of them ready to return to their lives before the war."

Mary sighed, smoothing her gown. "I doubt any of us is ready to return to the way our lives were before the war."

"Papa and Granny seem eager to go back," Edith answered, taking a sip of her claret.

"What will you and Matthew do, Mary?" Sybil asked.

Mary frowned. "I don't know."

"Will you stay on at the hospital?" Edith put in.

"No, I don't think so."

"I don't really want things to go back to the way they were," Sybil said. "Not after I've had a taste of something more."

Mary and Edith both nodded.

"I suppose we'll get used to the pace of life again," Edith said with a shrug.

Sybil shook her head. "I don't want to get used to it."

Mary frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I know what it is to work now," Sybil replied. "To have a full day, to be tired in a good way." She gestured at all their clothing with a slight frown. "I don't want to start dress fittings—" She closed her eyes a moment. "—or paying calls or standing behind the guns."

Edith raised her eyebrows. "But how will you escape all that?"

Mary chuckled. "She shall just have to find herself some young lord or other to marry."

"If there are any left," Edith said. They were all sombre a moment.

Then Sybil made a face. " _That_  won't save me from anything: it'll just ensure that I'll spend the rest of my life surrounded by insipidity."

"When did you become one of the proletariat?" Mary asked dryly. "I thought your cause was women's suffrage."

"I'm not a  _socialist_ ," Sybil answered. "I just want something...more."

Edith smiled. "You won't be in the waiting room forever, my dear. Just be patient."

Sybil shook her head. "I wish I didn't have to wait for a man to rescue me."

"Oh, don't wait for that," Mary retorted. "A man can't rescue you. A husband will just bring along all of his humanity to mix with yours."

Edith frowned at her. "Marriage isn't so bad."

"I never said it was," Mary replied. "I'm just agreeing with Sybil."

Edith looked across the room, towards where Anthony sat. "I enjoy being a wife and a mother, but I want more. I don't want to go back, either."

"Then don't," Sybil said. "You're far nicer than you were before the war, you know." Her eyes took in Mary, as well. "You both are."

Edith and Mary glanced uncomfortably at one another, then tentatively smiled. Sybil chuckled, shaking her head.

"So what would Harry and Sylvia enjoy?" Mary asked Edith. "Should I get them a rocking-horse for Christmas?"

"Oh, no, they've each already got one," Edith replied, waving her hand with a sigh. "I haven't even had a chance to  _think_  about presents yet; how can I possibly tell everyone else what to get?"

"Perhaps a book?" Mary suggested.

As she and Edith continued to exchange ideas for the children, Sybil sat back with a frown. Was Branson truly her ticket away from the house, away from this life? What other choice did she have? And she liked him more than any other man she'd ever befriended.

But what "humanity" would he bring with him? How well did she know him, really?

One day soon, she would no longer be able to think of herself as a nurse, and then what? Was the next step to think of herself as the wife of a... Well, he wouldn't be a chauffeur any longer. Where would they go? What would they do? She had a vague notion that he wanted to bring her back to Ireland with him. She smiled; that would be an adventure! But then she frowned. The adventure would one day become the routine. Although she was eager to try new things, she wondered if Mary and Edith were right: Branson might be able to take her away from here, but would he be enough? Would she always want...more?

Sybil frowned as her thoughts chased themselves in circles and settled on nothing.

* * *

**December 1918**

Tom braced himself and pivoted, his arms securely under Mr Matthew's as he lifted the man down from the car and helped him settle himself in the waiting wheelchair. Tom went round the chair and pulled Mr Matthew back a few feet, making enough space to gather the portfolio and the lap blanket from the back seat before closing the car door. The time spent on this task, his back to Mr Matthew, gave the man the few seconds of privacy needed to make sure he was settled properly in the chair. Mr Bates had been very specific about ensuring that privacy.

Tom turned around as a brisk wind blew over the fields, making his ears sting with the chill, and he tugged at his turned-up collar. Mr Matthew finished adjusting himself and straightened, holding out his gloved hand for the lap blanket, and Tom waited patiently for him to arrange it to his satisfaction, then handed over the portfolio as well.

"Push me to the roadside, would you, Branson?"

The ground was uneven and the chair caught on a stubborn tuft of matted grass, but a minute later, Mr Matthew held up a hand and Tom stopped. The ground dropped steeply for a few feet in front of them before levelling out into a frost-covered field. The wheels of the chair could not be locked, so Tom kept his hand on one handle as he came to stand beside Mr Matthew, who opened his portfolio. He drew out a pencil and, frowning in the direction of the farmhouse, began to write.

Tom looked across the bleak winter landscape, wondering yet again why they were out here. He'd never been asked to do anything like this before. When Lord Grantham wished to inspect his lands, he usually preferred to do it on foot in the summer-time and only rarely took the car to the more far-flung edges of his estate. Lady Grantham sometimes visited the tenants who had very young or sick family members, bringing a basket or some such thing. No one ever asked Tom to stop in the middle of the fields in winter and then proceeded to stand—or rather, sit; it was still so strange to think of Mr Matthew as someone who would never walk again—merely jotting down notes.

Tom looked at the farmhouse just as a face disappeared behind a first-floor curtain. They were drawing attention. He shifted his stance and glanced over the nearest outbuildings, which stood several hundred feet away. It looked as ordinary as any other farm. A tad rundown, perhaps, but that was nothing to blink at. Farm life was exhausting, constant work, and there was often little light or energy left for repairs at the end of each day.

Mr Matthew made an annoyed noise and stopped writing, his left hand flexing over his left leg. He closed his fist and pressed down on his thigh a moment, then gave a sigh and closed the portfolio as he looked up at Tom. "Would you push me a bit further that way?" he asked, gesturing towards the farmhouse.

"Certainly, sir."

Tom frowned as he pulled Mr Matthew back from the edge of the road and they went on together, the chair rolling unevenly over the ground. Tom thought he heard Mr Matthew hiss in pain once, but he kept pushing, trying his best to keep the chair's wheels on level ground. Why was Mr Matthew out here doing this? Was he on an errand for Lord Grantham? Mr Carson had said that Tom was to be at Mr Matthew's disposal for the next few days, except when called by some other member of the family. It delayed the usual errands that Tom ran and he wasn't able to complete his regular schedule of vehicle maintenance—although, if he were honest, he did invent a bit of work for himself, passing so many tedious hours alone in the garage—but if Lord Grantham had ordered it, then it wasn't for Tom to question.

Although he  _did_  wonder why Lord Grantham would have sent out Mr Matthew, and not someone more able-bodied.

On the other hand, it was just the sort of thing Lord Grantham would do: treat Mr Matthew as a person and not as an invalid. Tom smiled at that. Although the earl was often gruff and reserved, he did treat his family and his employees with kindness. Tom saw the same qualities in Sybil.

Tom frowned at the thought of the youngest Crawley daughter. He wondered if he'd ever be permitted to tell Lord Grantham how obvious it was that Sybil had inherited her kind heart from her father. Even if Sybil chose Tom, the rest of the family would probably never accept him. Lord Grantham was kind, but always in a way that matched his status and class; that kindness had limitations. Besides, Sybil still hadn't—

"Ahh!" Mr Matthew gave a cry and Tom pulled up short, quickly coming round to see what was wrong.

"Mr Matthew, sir, I'm sorry—"

"Argh—no—Branson, it's—" Mr Matthew hissed and squeezed his eyes shut. "— _God_..." He grunted and held himself up slightly, adjusting his position, then sighed and sagged a bit in his chair. When he opened his eyes, they were pained. "It's just my damn leg." He pressed his eyes closed again, his voice dropping. "And now it's the other one as well."

Tom saw that the portfolio had slid off Mr Matthew's lap and was now resting against his ankle and the footrest, tipping towards the ground. Thankfully, none of the papers had fallen out of it, but Tom had to search for the pencil. As he found it and straightened, Mr Matthew finished the awkward process of re-adjusting his position in his chair, and he accepted the proffered items from Tom with a grateful nod.

"I'm sorry about this Branson. I've taken you away from a warm hearth and now you're minding a cripple. I'm sure you'd rather be somewhere—anywhere—else."

Tom smiled and shook his head as another gust of wind blew past, and he resisted the urge to push his gloved hands into his pockets. "Don't worry about me, sir. I don't mind one bit. I'm doing my job." He went back around the chair and began to push it again. "It's a nice change of pace from all those hours spent tinkering in the garage, or sitting out waiting in the car."

Mr Matthew laughed. "You don't waste them, though. What was the book you tossed in before we left this morning?"

Tom chuckled. " _On Liberty_."

"Ah."

"Do you know it?"

"I've read it, yes. I rather like Mill's philosophy.  _The Subjection of Women_  is particularly—" Mr Matthew hissed again, and Tom pulled up.

"Are you certain you're all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," Mr Matthew replied, half-growling. He turned his head towards Tom, softening his voice, and Tom understood that Mr Matthew wasn't angry with him. "If it's not a sudden, awful electric shock running down my leg, it's a tingling-itching-burning-freezing sensation in this patch on my thigh. And of course scratching it has no effect. I can't do a damn thing about it: I can't even feel my hand pressing on it. Just this maddening—grr—sensation."

"You're regaining feeling in your legs?" Tom's heart jumped.

Mr Matthew looked straight ahead, making a gesture with his arm that prompted Tom to start pushing him forward again. The chair bumped and rolled, and the farmhouse drew closer.

"No," Mr Matthew finally said. "Dr Clarkson says it's an illusion, a memory or something. It's just a delayed reaction to my injury."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear it."

Mr Matthew sighed. "You're not the only one."

Tom was curious, but he wasn't sure he should ask another question. Would it seem like prying, taking liberties and being too familiar? Mr Matthew had always been amiable with the servants, just as Sybil was, but this was an intensely personal topic. Tom swallowed. If Mr Matthew didn't want to carry on the conversation, he could always end it, but he seemed the type who would not be put out by Tom's curiosity.

"Did he say when these...illusions...might stop?" Tom asked.

Mr Matthew shook his head. "It's impossible to know." Then he hissed again, but immediately waved his arm, and Tom didn't stop moving them along the road this time.

"Are you sure you want to continue, sir?"

Mr Matthew adjusted the portfolio beside him, then straightened himself in his chair, the set of his shoulders defiant.

"Absolutely."

They went on.

* * *

Matthew frowned at the fifth farm they'd visited that morning. He'd specifically chosen the tenants that were still in arrears, because he wanted to determine if they had the capacity to pay but were simply choosing not to for some reason. Robert never seemed to have pursued the delinquent rents, instead making notes such as "infirm" or "death in the family" in the ledger. His generosity was admirable, but the sheer fact of the matter was that it was a terrible way to run a business. Surely there were better ways to provide for those in need, without sacrificing as many resources.

What Matthew found was that in four of the five cases, the farms had been in poor repair, the buildings unkempt and the land sparsely tilled: the rows seemed wider apart on this land than they did on the healthier-looking farms, and in one case, an entire field only had weeds and grasses growing in it.

Or, rather, he  _thought_  it was only weeds and grasses. He couldn't be sure, and that was what was frustrating him. He really needed to talk to Anthony about how to determine the health and usage of a field just by looking at it.

"I wish I knew how to do this," he muttered.

"Do what, sir?" Branson asked, from where he always stood, patiently waiting.

Matthew gestured at the field they were looking at. "Evaluate the land. Determine if it's being used to its fullest potential. Figure out which crops are being sown, so I can estimate how much profit the tenant farmer must have made based on current market prices."

"This one didn't have any crops sown on it, sir."

Matthew glanced up at him sharply. "How can you tell?"

Branson gestured with his chin. "The rows are only faintly defined: it hasn't been tilled in some time. Probably three to four years, at least. And it's gone to seed."

Matthew looked back at the field and saw what Branson had called out. "'Gone to seed': does that mean Nature has taken its course? Or that it can't hold a crop?"

"It's filled with wild grasses and weeds," Branson replied, "but it looks perfectly healthy. It's probably rich soil now, having lain fallow for so long."

Matthew made a quick note on his papers and looked up. "Is there any way to tell what kind of crops this field might have held?"

Branson frowned. "Difficult. It's been so long." He squinted and pointed as he spoke. "Perhaps barley? Or wheat, over on that rise?" He shrugged and dropped his hand. "I'd have to examine the soil to know for certain. There are bound to be a few of the seed plants amongst all the weeds."

Matthew stared up at him. How had a chauffeur come by all this farming knowledge? Branson had never hinted at such skills before.

"Can you do that?"

Branson seemed to come to himself and he blinked, then looked a bit embarrassed as he scratched the back of his neck. "I'm not sure...it's not my place." He lifted his hand, waving it towards the field before letting it drop to his side again. "Besides, the soil is frozen solid. This isn't the best season for that sort of thing."

Matthew looked out over the expanse of frost-covered, dead plant life and nodded. "Right. Of course. I hadn't meant to put you on the spot."

"It's no bother, sir."

Matthew tucked his pencil away and closed the portfolio. "Let's go back to the car. I'm famished."

Branson nodded and got Matthew's chair aimed in the right direction.

"To the house, sir?"

"No, I'd like to take lunch at the pub in the village. Would you join me?"

There was a careful pause, and then Branson said: "It's not generally done, sir..."

"I won't force you to sit with me if you'd rather not," Matthew replied, smiling, "but they serve all kinds there." He made a gesture that took in his chair. "We can let people assume that you're taking lunch with me because of this."

Branson chuckled. "Fair enough." They went along the road and drew up to the car. Branson came around and opened the back door, taking Matthew's things and putting them inside. But the chauffeur paused before lifting Matthew up, and he met Matthew's eyes. "What is the real reason you want me to join you for lunch?"

Matthew smiled. "To get to know you better. How did you come to know so much about farming?"

Branson looked away. "My grandfather was a tenant farmer in Galway, with black-faced sheep."

"So there's a country boy inside the chauffeur."

"Not much of one," Branson replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

Matthew raised his arms and Branson planted his feet, then bent and lifted. The exertion didn't even make the man grunt, which Matthew admired. For all that Matthew appreciated Bates, there was always a small measure of trepidation: could Bates lift him this time? Bates had only lost his footing once in all the months that he'd been caring for Matthew, but one cripple lifting another was an uncertain prospect on the best of days. Matthew would never have spoken a word to Bates—or anyone else—about his concerns, as he much preferred Bates's care to the alternatives, but there was something of a relief in how smoothly and easily Branson was able to help him transfer from the car to the chair and back.

"Thank you," Matthew said, settling. He picked up each of his legs in turn and got his feet flat on the floor before hefting himself and straightening. He had to keep his hands planted on the seat to ensure he remained upright during the jostling of the journey. It was a bit wearying on the wrists, but he could manage.

Branson nodded, closing the door before going round the back of the car. Matthew winced when he felt the vehicle rocking slightly as Branson secured the wheelchair on the luggage rack, using the system of straps and wooden bracers that he and Bates had devised only the day before. Matthew was still amazed at the resourcefulness that had been displayed on his behalf; he was humbled by it, and he would not let their efforts go to waste.

Despite the discomfort, he would make it through this day, and the next, and so on, until he finished gathering the information he required to formulate a plan for Robert and Jarvis and Murray to review. He had a great deal of work to do, but he looked forward to it. It was a large puzzle to solve and he smiled as he thought of fitting in each piece.

Branson climbed into the front seat and started the motor, then glanced back at Matthew. The chauffeur's eyes crinkled in a smile, matching Matthew's.

"Ready to go, sir?"

"Yes," Matthew answered. "A warm bowl of soup and a pint sounds just the thing, I think."

"Aye," Branson replied with a grin, and off they went.

* * *

Jarvis frowned, his eyes raking the landscape as he drove along the road, looking for Mr Crawley. What the devil was going on? It was certainly no mere sightseeing tour: Jarvis had heard half a dozen inquiries at the pub already and everyone was concerned about what Mr Crawley was doing. One tenant said the man was taking notes and pointing at things, apparently deep in conversation with the chauffeur. It was all terribly odd, and disconcerting, to put it mildly. No one had spoken to Jarvis about a survey. Was Lord Grantham planning to make some changes? Why hadn't he spoken to Jarvis about them?

Jarvis's weekly meeting with Lord Grantham wasn't until tomorrow, but perhaps he ought to stop by a day early and find out if he was on the verge of being sacked. Mildred had long warned him the day was coming when he would learn that the Grantham Estate was insolvent and would have to be sold up. Although Jarvis admired Lord Grantham's benevolence, the war had only exacerbated the situation, and Jarvis chafed at the way Lord Grantham repeatedly dismissed his concerns. Even if the earl wrote the most glowing letter of recommendation, no one would hire Jarvis to manage a farthing, once news of the estate's demise became public knowledge. Jarvis wondered if he ought to resign now, before that day came. But he liked Lord Grantham; he was a kind master, and good to his tenants.

"You'll bear the blame if the estate fails, Edmund," Mildred always said.

Jarvis drew in a deep breath, then expelled a sigh as the car trundled down the road. He couldn't afford to be out of work now. With Elliott lost in the war and Will crippled, half a leg destroyed by a stray shell, the future that Jarvis had planned for would never materialise. He no longer hoped that he could perhaps retire in a few years and rely on the generosity of his sons to carry himself and Mildred into old age. Now there was only Eliza, but she hadn't married yet—with fewer whole young men about, he didn't know what would become of her—and he had no choice but to continue working for as long as his aging body would allow.

His joints creaked as the car bumped over an uneven patch in the road, and he winced and sighed again, his stomach tense as he scanned the horizon.

His heart jumped when he spotted Lord Grantham's Sunbeam up ahead. Squinting, he craned his head to get a better view, but he didn't see Mr Crawley; perhaps the man was on the far side of the car and it blocked him from view. Jarvis slowed his old Model T Truck and pulled up behind the limousine. He cut the motor and climbed out, pulling up his collar against the cold and closing the door behind him. His annoyed strides carried him quickly down the road.

As expected, Lord Grantham's chauffeur was pushing Mr Crawley in a wheelchair towards the roadside, in full view of Windmill Farm. Jarvis set his jaw as his steps slowed. Getting into an altercation with a cripple held no honour; it would be best to patiently inquire what the devil the man was up to.

"Good afternoon," Jarvis called, raising a hand. The chauffeur stopped and turned to look at him, then quickly turned back and angled Mr Crawley to face Jarvis.

"Jarvis!" Mr Crawley answered, his face lighting up. "Just the man I want to speak with!"

Jarvis wasn't sure whether to be flattered or worried by this greeting.  _Why does Mr Crawley wish to speak with me? He's no longer the heir. What business does he have with me?_

Jarvis drew up. "How can I help you, sir?"  _Tell me what's going on!_

Mr Crawley's gesture took in the field to Jarvis's right. "I'm trying to learn more about how to assess the health of a field," he replied. "Branson here seems to have the knack of it, but I'm afraid I'm a city boy, born and bred." Mr Crawley gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Jarvis managed a weak smile.  _Why is Mr Crawley asking the_ chauffeur _about the health of the fields? Why wasn't I consulted? What the devil_ — _?_

The chauffeur at least had the grace to look uncomfortable; he merely shrugged and looked away when Jarvis met his eyes. Jarvis frowned down at Mr Crawley.

"I can certainly explain how to do that, but why do you need to know? Is Lord Grantham displeased with the health of this field?"

"No," Mr Crawley replied quickly, indicating to the chauffeur that he wished to be pushed to the edge of the road. Jarvis followed, a sinking sensation in his gut. "I'm trying to assess whether the field is being used to its fullest potential. It appears to have...gone to seed. It seems to me that if this field were combined with the one next to it, the crop raised on the other could also be raised here. I understand that the soil types are probably the same?"

Jarvis stared at Mr Crawley. "But the other field is farmed by Mr Lancing." He pointed. "That's the property border."

"Well, certainly it is  _now_ , but it needn't always be, surely," Mr Crawley replied. Jarvis felt a shock of fear and his frown deepened.  _Was old Mr Hansen to be turned out of his farm?_  But Mr Crawley continued, unperturbed. "It seems such a shame to let a field lie fallow for this long, don't you think?"

Jarvis measured his words, fighting a rising sense of panic. Was Mr Crawley accusing him of  _mismanagement?_  "I...think that any such changes should be discussed with the tenant farmers."

"Of course," Mr Crawley replied absently, as he'd begun making notes in the portfolio that rested on his lap. "What crop was raised in Mr Lancing's field this year?"

Jarvis swallowed, realised his fists were clenched, and forcibly relaxed them. "There was more than one crop; they rotated with the seasons," he answered.

"All the better," Mr Crawley said cheerfully, looking up, his pencil hovering above the paper. "What were they?"

 _Barley. Spelt. Cabbages._  "I'd have to look through my records," Jarvis replied. His heart had begun to pound. He looked away from Mr Crawley, trying desperately to regain his equilibrium. Mildred was right; he was about to be sacked. Was Lord Grantham so displeased with his performance? Why else would the earl send a cripple and a  _chauffeur_  to do Jarvis's job for him? If Lord Grantham wanted a survey of the unused lands, Jarvis could have provided it with little notice.

He wouldn't cry; blubbing was for women and babies. But Mildred would be  _so_  disappointed. Where could he go to find employment? He was getting too old for a new lord or estate to want to take him on; they all wanted younger men.

He drew in a breath and exhaled, calming himself. He must speak with Lord Grantham at once.

"You keep records?" Mr Crawley asked, straightening as he finished another note and closed his portfolio. Jarvis gave him a look of disbelief. What did the man think Jarvis  _did_  as the Grantham Estate's property manager? "Excellent! When might I be able to look through them? And do you also have the square acreage for each plot recorded?"

"...yes," Jarvis answered slowly. "I've kept detailed records of every aspect of the Estate for more than forty years."

Mr Crawley was smiling. "Where are they kept? Might I borrow them?"

Jarvis frowned. "Are you on an errand for Lord Grantham, sir? I wouldn't be permitted to give access to anyone without his  _explicit_  permission." He fixed Mr Crawley in a stern glance. "You understand."

Mr Crawley frowned, but nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't ask if I didn't have it."

Jarvis pushed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the gust of wind that blew over them. "You'll forgive me, Mr Crawley, but I'd rather hear it from His Lordship directly."

"Certainly. Your discretion is admirable. You still meet with him on Wednesdays, don't you?"

Jarvis nodded.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then," Mr Crawley replied with a smile. "Would you bring the books along?"

His expression  _seemed_  open and cheerful and honest, but Jarvis didn't like the sound of this one bit. He was going to be sacked, he knew it.

"Yes. Of course. Good day." He gave a curt nod. His eyes flickered up to the chauffeur, who had stood silently behind Mr Crawley's chair, watching the whole exchange. The chauffeur frowned and looked away.

Turning on his heel, with a heavy heart and bit of burning anger in his chest, Jarvis stalked back to his car. He damn well wasn't going to wait until  _tomorrow_  to talk to His Lordship.

He climbed in, started the motor, and pulled out on to the road, driving past the other car. With a final glance at the two men, he set his jaw and began to rehearse what he would say when he reached Downton Abbey.

* * *

"It's just so  _frustrating_ ," Matthew said, shaking his head. "The man has  _never_  warmed to me. I don't like to think ill of people, and I know Rob—Lord Grantham—relies on him a great deal, but I can't help thinking he's stonewalling me."

Matthew saw Branson's eyes flicker uncomfortably away in the rear-view mirror, and Matthew frowned.

"What?"

"It's not my place, sir," Branson replied.

"Hmm." Matthew frowned at the back of the chauffeur's head. "You know something."

Branson slowed the car as they reached the end of the road, then shifted gears and turned out on to the lane that ran along the churchyard. Matthew had to admire how smoothly Branson handled the motor; Matthew would have ground at least one gear by now. He shook his head and looked out the window. That was neither here nor there. He would never drive a car again.

"Mr Jarvis was...concerned," Branson said. Matthew looked up with a frown.

"About what?"

Branson's eyes remained fixed on the road as they went round a bend. "Your questions were—" he shrugged uncomfortably, "—if I may say so, sir, rather...blunt." His eyes flickered to Matthew's and away again.

Matthew's frown deepened. "Blunt? But how else could I ask for such basic information?"

"You didn't explain why you wanted it," Branson replied. "You were asking him about the details of his job, implying that things could be done better. Put yourself in his shoes. Sir."

Matthew's mouth fell open and he raised his eyebrows. "Dear God! Do you think Jarvis is afraid for his  _job?_ "

Branson didn't answer immediately; that was answer enough. Matthew closed his eyes, feeling a right idiot.

"It wasn't just you, sir," Branson said quickly.

Matthew frowned and looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

Branson sighed, turning his head slightly towards Matthew as he spoke. "Mr Jarvis lost a son to the war. I think he might have another, but that one's on crutches now. Always will be. And you're not the first to ask about the fields. The villagers talk. I've heard the young men in the pub. Mr Jarvis is caught in the middle." Branson swallowed. "I'm not sure I ought to say more. I'm sorry, sir."

Matthew blinked, trying to piece together Branson's rather oblique and disjointed explanation. His suspicions, and his discomfort, grew. Robert would hear of this, one way or another. Perhaps the questions about the family's management of the estate were not as private as Robert assumed them to be. The evidence was visible for all to see, after all. And Matthew, having blundered into the situation without considering the impact his actions could have on everyone involved, had just stirred the pot.

Branson pulled the car up in front of the hospital and parked, and Matthew took the opportunity to shake out his wrists as he relaxed against the seat.

"I'll be right back, sir," Branson said, hopping down.

Matthew, still frowning, watched as the chauffeur disappeared through the front door of the hospital. Matthew much preferred puzzle-solving to keeping all the necessary feathers in place. Mary was so much better at that sort of thing. She'd managed to make significant changes to many aspects of the hospital's workings, and he'd never heard anything but the warmest expressions of praise for her contributions. His mother and Cousin Violet had regaled him with tales of Mary's clever prowess, her subtle management of Dr Clarkson, and her smooth handling of the accounts with dozens of village folk. Cousin Violet, in particular, had beamed with pride.

Matthew chuckled to himself and shook his head. Cousin Violet was a force to be reckoned with; he could only imagine what Mary would be when she reached her grandmother's present age. He smiled as he envisioned it, and himself beside her.

Then he paused. He was healthy enough now, but that could all change in a blink, with one thoughtless mistake, if he was not careful as he tended to his body's needs. Most men in his condition died within a few short months of receiving their injuries, as the result of complications from infection. Bates ensured that Matthew received the very best care, and the cleanest equipment and surroundings, but it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? One day soon, Matthew might find himself facing his own end, and he would be powerless to change it. He was already fortunate to have made it four months without incident.

Mary appeared in the doorway, her maroon hat and matching winter ensemble—dove-grey gloves clasped around her handbag and a similar scarf tucked under the neck of her maroon, calf-length coat—serving to throw her porcelain skin and dark hair into a truly lovely light. She was elegant and beautiful, and he was so glad that she was his wife and his eyes could drink her in freely.

Branson opened the door opposite Matthew, and Mary's eyes met Matthew's before she gracefully stepped up and seated herself beside him. A small smile played on her lips.

"Which are you today?" she asked. "Tench or trout?"

Matthew blinked, then closed his mouth—which had been hanging open as he stared at her—and he smirked.

"Neither," he murmured quietly, nudging her shoulder with his, mindful of Branson climbing into the front seat. "Just a man in love with his wife."

The small smile on her face blossomed into a wide one and his heart took flight. Somehow, even the most difficult of days seemed brighter when she was by his side. He grinned at her as Branson pulled the car out on to the road, taking them home.

* * *

Mary stepped into the great hall, pausing to allow Carson to reach her and take her things. Officers sat at the long tables reading or playing cards, but their numbers were thinning.

"Good afternoon, Carson." She gave the butler a warm smile, which he returned with his customary restraint.

"Good afternoon, my lady." He accepted her gloves and draped her coat over his arm. "Her Ladyship requested your presence, as soon as you arrived home. She's up in her rooms."

Mary frowned slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Carson answered carefully. "There was a telephone call for you shortly after lunch. I didn't recognise the woman's voice. Her Ladyship took the call in your stead."

Mary frowned, then glanced back as Matthew came into the foyer, Branson behind him, lifting the back of his chair over the threshold. Once the wheels were on level ground, Matthew grasped the push rims and propelled himself into the great hall.

Bates appeared. Matthew never removed his coat in the entranceway now. He rolled towards the valet, and as he passed Mary, he paused.

"Do you have need of me?" he asked her.

"No, I'm going up to see Mama."

"All right," he replied, and he disappeared in the direction of the hall that led to their rooms, Bates keeping pace with him.

"Oh, you're back," her father said, coming out of the library. He frowned as he glanced around. "Is Matthew about?"

Carson moved off and she crossed to the stairs. "He's just gone to change," she answered, nodding in the direction of their rooms and putting a cautioning look in her eye. "He might be some time; he's been out all day."

"Ah." Her father looked uncomfortable, then gave a short nod and went back into the library.

Mary lifted her chin and mounted the steps. Before, she would have been discomfited by the need to speak of Matthew's situation, but she found that she was less concerned now with how it all looked to everyone else. He was still Matthew, deserving of her respect and care; that was all that mattered.

When she reached the door to her mother's room, she knocked, and entered when bid.

"You wished to speak with me, Mama?"

"Oh, Mary, yes. One moment." Cora finished perusing a long list and set the paper down on her desk. She turned in her chair, one arm draped over its back. "Sit, my dear. You seem tired."

Mary gave her a look but obeyed, unpinning her hat. She set it down on the sofa cushion beside her. "I'm feeling quite well, thank you."

Cora's smile was thin. "Are you? I'm glad to hear it." She paused. "I took a telephone call for you this afternoon. It was Dr Ryder's secretary."

Mary met her mother's eyes and frowned. "Why—oh, of course. I was to see him six months after the operation, but he was still serving."

Cora nodded. "Yes, well, now he's contacting all his clients to let them know that his office is open again. The secretary was  _quite_  insistent that you return her call." She eyed Mary a moment. "Will you? Now that...?"

Mary arched an eyebrow, daring her mother to speak the words. Cora finally pressed her lips together in annoyance and gave a soft huff, before shaking her head and looking away.

Mary lifted her chin. "Thank you for relaying the message, Mama." She rose, gathering her hat and her handbag. "Yes. I think I will."

Cora looked up at her with a flash of surprise. "But there isn't any point to it, surely."

Mary went to the door. "That is for Matthew and I to decide."

Cora's hand tightened on the back of the chair, but she nodded. She gave Mary a soft smile. "I have only your best interests at heart, my dear."

Mary pressed her lips together. "I know. Thank you, Mama."

At her mother's nod, she left, quietly pulling the door closed behind her, then paused a moment. Her heart pounded as she contemplated telephoning Dr Ryder's office. In all honesty, Mary's resolve was weak and uncertain. What would she tell Matthew? They had not discussed the topic of trying to have a child. It seemed an impossibility now. Her mother was right—but Mary did not want her to know that. So much of Matthew's private business had become somewhat public knowledge, as they were living with the family and the officers. Mary refused to allow all that her husband dealt with to be exposed, even to those who cared deeply for him. She had a fierce desire to protect him from prying eyes and speculation, and if that meant she must brave a single telephone call, then she would.

Even if it were to be in full hearing of anyone standing outside the library. The telephone was located between the library and the foyer, after all. It was hardly a private space.

"I can take those, my lady," Anna offered, approaching with a warm smile on her face. She accepted the hat and handbag from Mary, her smile fading. "Are you quite all right?"

Mary blinked and nodded and put on a smile. "Yes, Anna, thank you. I think I'd like to wear the cream-coloured gown this evening. Is it cleaned yet?"

"Yes, my lady. And pressed as well. I'll have it ready for you."

"Thank you." Mary's smile warmed and, with a brisk nod, Anna moved on.

Mary descended the stairs slowly, her eyes taking in the great hall. Tea would be served soon; the usual late-afternoon lull meant the house was relatively quiet. Her conversation would carry, but at least Matthew wouldn't be out to overhear it. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she braced herself and crossed the room to the telephone, maintaining an air of nonchalance.

"What number do you want?"

"Dr Joseph Ryder, London, please," Mary spoke into the mouthpiece.

"One moment," the disembodied woman's voice replied. Mary listened patiently to the series of clicks and switches, as her request was repeated twice more along the line.

"Is that 'Ryder' with an 'i' or a 'y'?" a new voice asked.

"A 'y'," Mary replied. Another click, three rings, and then:

"Dr Ryder's practice, his secretary speaking."

"Yes, I'm Lady Mary Crawley. You telephoned for me earlier today?"

"Oh yes, Lady Mary. You're due for a six-month follow-up. We apologise for the delay."

"It's no matter," Mary replied. "I won't be needing it."

There was a pause.

"May I ask why?"

Mary swallowed, her eyes darting towards the rest of the room, but she quickly caught herself and straightened, turning towards the wall.

"My husband sustained an injury to his spinal cord in the war," she answered, then pressed her lips together, unwilling to say more.

"Ah. One moment, please."

Mary frowned, but waited.

"Lady Mary?" a baritone voice asked.

"Yes."

"This is Dr Ryder. Mrs Holden tells me that you are opting not to have a follow-up visit."

"Yes."  _Don't make me say the words again_ , Mary thought.

There was a pause, some murmuring, and then: "Ah." Dr Ryder's voice sounded clearly again. "Your husband's spinal cord is damaged. Which vertebrae?"

Mary frowned. "I'm not sure. It's his lower back."

"How much control and sensation does he have below the point of injury?"

Mary drew in a deep breath, willing her voice not to shake. "None."

"When did he sustain the injury?"

"August."

"And there has been no change in his condition since then?"

"No," Mary answered.

Dr Ryder's voice dropped. "I see. My condolences." There was long pause, and then: "Can he maintain an erection?"

"Excuse me?" Mary's eyes widened and her cheeks and forehead warmed, but she focused on the wall opposite, her hand tightening on the mouthpiece stand. If she maintained a cool demeanour, she would not draw any attention.

"It's only theoretical, you understand," Dr Ryder said slowly. "The medicine in this area is sketchy or non-existent at best. I once discussed this with a colleague who had a patient—well, in any case, it might be possible for your husband, even with an injury to his lumbar spine, to achieve and maintain an erection—I trust you know what that is—"

"Yes," Mary cut in quickly. She didn't think she could bear to hear it described in more graphic terms.

"Good. As I was saying, it  _might_  still be possible with sufficient stimulation. I honestly don't know. I encourage you to at least try to find out. What you learn may help not just you and your husband, but others with a similar condition."

Mary was deeply sceptical. "I'll...try." She winced slightly at the prospect. How could she possibly tell Matthew about this?

"Either way," Dr Ryder said, "I'd still like to see you, to ensure you've had a good recovery." She heard the sound of papers rustling. "I have Dr Clarkson's report, but I'd like to see you myself."

"Of course," she replied. She would have to give Matthew a reason for wanting to go to London for a day or two. Perhaps she could claim a wish to visit Aunt Rosamund? To run an errand for Mama? Or perhaps she would just decline to return. After all, what did her own recovery matter now? "I'll check my diary and make an appointment at a later date."

"Also..." Dr Ryder began.

"Yes?"

"If what I suggested works, I would like to see your husband, as well."

Mary swallowed. "I see."

"Truly, what we learn might have a much farther-reaching impact that you realise."

Mary didn't much relish the idea of becoming a medical experiment. "Yes. So you said. Thank you."

"Thank  _you_ , Lady Mary. I wish you the best."

"Good-bye."

The line clicked off and Mary slowly set the receiver down on its hook, her movements deliberate. She looked up to see Carson twisting against the door as he went into the library with the tea service. Matthew would be out soon to have tea with the family. The prospect of facing his unknowing, easy smile, of carrying on a conversation with everyone about mundane things, while this buzzed about in her mind filled her with trepidation. She set her shoulders and drew in a deep breath.

What would she tell him?

* * *

The dining room was quiet, now that the women had gone through. Robert waved out his match, watching as Matthew settled back and closed his eyes, savouring a sip of port.

"Jarvis came by to see me this afternoon."

Matthew's eyes opened and he grimaced and set down the tumbler. "Yes, I handled that poorly, didn't I?"

"I don't know," Robert replied, narrowing his eyes. "What happened?"

Matthew waved a hand, shaking his head. "I asked a lot of pointed questions without considering how they'd look." He sighed. "I'm sorry for any trouble I caused."

Robert nodded, exhaling smoke. "I asked him to help you. Said it was business with Murray, something about the firm wanting an audit." Robert frowned and shook his head. "The man was on edge about something. What did you ask him?"

"Oh, questions about the health of the fields and the crops and the like." Matthew gave a nod towards the library. "The books tell me about the rents and the operating expenses, but they're only part of the picture." He sighed. "I just went about it at sixes and sevens. It wasn't until Branson pointed out that I might have made Jarvis concerned for his job that I realised I'd gone about it all in a cack-handed fashion."

Robert frowned. "Branson?"

Matthew gave him a lopsided smile. "There's far more to the man than meets the eye."

"Given what he reads, I'm not surprised," Robert answered dryly. "But that doesn't mean I'm paying him to volunteer opinions about what you're doing."

Matthew shook his head, a wry smile still on his lips. "I dragged it out of him, rather. Blame me for the interference, not Branson."

"I  _do_  blame you." Robert raised his eyebrows and drew on the cigar, exhaling slowly. He rolled it in its tray and propped his elbow on the table as he lifted it again. "Jarvis says that your presence out on the farms was causing concern amongst the tenants." He frowned. "This is  _exactly_  what I was hoping to avoid."

Matthew's smile had dropped away and he frowned as he looked at the table beside them. "Yes, I'm afraid I hadn't fully considered the complexities of the situation. I can better understand now why you were reluctant to answer Murray's inquiries."

"Good," Robert replied. "From now on, speak with Jarvis instead of visiting the farms."

"I will."

Robert peered at him. "Are you certain you're up to continuing? You seemed rather tired at dinner this evening. I wouldn't want you to overtax yourself; this business with Murray isn't worth the trouble."

Matthew took another swallow of his port and shook his head as he set the tumbler down. "I won't. I just haven't spent a full day out since, well..." He tilted his head and Robert nodded. "This task is good for me; thank you for entrusting me with it. The only way to regain my strength is to challenge myself, and I find that I quite enjoy it." Matthew lifted his chin. "Why should I be anything less than my best?"

Robert grinned. "I'll drink to that."

They clinked their glasses together, Robert leaning towards Matthew as the younger man lifted his drink.

* * *

"Not tonight, darling," Mary said with a sigh, drawing out of Matthew's embrace and starting to make herself comfortable on her side of the bed.

Matthew frowned. "But it's been more than a  _week_. Don't you...want it?"

Mary smiled. "No, not really." She rolled on to her side to face him. "When you weren't here, I only wanted it two or three times a month. I'm content."

Matthew blinked.  _Only two or three times a month?_  When he was whole, he would have wished to make love to her several times a  _week_. Hm. Interesting.  _That_  would have been a challenge.

He thought wryly that it was perhaps a good thing he  _wasn't_  whole; he wanted comfort this evening, but he could be just as happy with a mere embrace, if that was what Mary wished.

"It's been a rather trying day," he answered. "May I just hold you? Because I need to. Very much."

Mary nodded, rolling until her back was pressed against his stomach. He draped an arm over her, drawing himself against her and settling into their customary embrace. He smiled as he heard her sigh of contentment.

"I'm sorry it was difficult," she said. "I thought you did well, all things considered. You seemed in good spirits when you came to fetch me."

"I was...when I saw you. But I'm afraid I rather blundered about today and ruffled some feathers, despite your warning. People are talking now."

"Ah," she replied. "Will Papa allow you to continue?"

"For now," Matthew replied. "As long as I only speak to Jarvis."

"That seems reasonable."

"Quite." He paused and they lay together, quiet, for a long while. He wondered if she had fallen asleep, but then she shifted and sighed, sounding still very much awake. He swallowed. "You seemed distant this evening. Distracted. Is everything all right at the hospital?"

"What? Oh. Oh, yes."

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing, darling. Good night."

Matthew frowned. She was hiding something. But why?

"Are you unwell?"

Mary shifted, drawing away from him. "No. I'm just tired, Matthew." She moved back to her side of the bed.

Matthew watched her settle under the covers, drawing them up over her ears against the slight chill in the room. She closed her eyes. He frowned, uncertain whether he should press her further. Sometimes she opened up when he did that, but tonight... He swallowed and rolled on to his back, keeping a hand on his leg.

"I love you," he finally said. "Good night."

Mary's words were soft and muffled. "I love you, too, darling. Thank you for understanding."

 _But I_ don't _understand_ , he thought, frowning up at the canopy.

She didn't want to make love. She didn't want to remain in his arms. And she was hiding something from him.

Was she going off him? It seemed inevitable, really, only a matter of time. What did he have to offer her, after all? He'd hoped doing this task for Robert would show that he could still do something of value, contribute in some way, but he'd made a serious blunder on his first day out.

He felt sick to his stomach. Reaching down to pull the dead weight of his legs up to his chest—Mary made a small, muffled sound of protest when he briefly dragged the blankets away from her, and he quickly murmured an apology—he rolled on to his side, facing away from her, and put the second pillow between his knees. Checked the tension in the catheter and loosened it with a small tug. Fought off the bitter, sharp little thought that maybe he ought to leave it, let something happen, spare Mary further sacrifices on his behalf.

No. He wouldn't do that.

He stared into the darkness, wondering if she would ever tell him the truth, or if they would simply grow apart in a slow, cooling way. His heart ached at the thought. It seemed to happen to so many married couples, and in their case, the odds were even further stacked against them. No children. An uncertain future. He wanted to trust her—she'd been so extraordinary thus far—but he was afraid. Sometimes her love seemed too good to be true.

 _Lord_ , he thought, and then he ran out of words.

_Shh. Sleep now._

Matthew closed his eyes. He would face it all tomorrow.

* * *

Mary watched Matthew's form in the dark, noting when his shoulders finally sagged and he burrowed deeper into his pillow. She swallowed, her throat thick. She wished he'd just been content to let her lie in his arms, but no: he'd noticed. Of course he did.

Sometimes she wished he weren't  _quite_  so perceptive. It was often a comfort, but sometimes it was...inconvenient.

Because there was no way she could explain. She'd turned it over and over in her mind since the telephone call that afternoon, but she could find no way of broaching the topic without also explaining why Dr Ryder's office had contacted her at all. And even if she were able to tell Matthew about her operation, to share her joy at its success, what then? The next thought was heartbreak, for Matthew could not father children. Or  _might_  not be able to. It was such a strange idea. What would be involved if he could?

She frowned as she contemplated the mechanics of it. Surely it would not work. Unless Dr Ryder had some idea of how to—

She squeezed her eyes closed. Best not contemplate that. It made her shiver.

Besides, was it even wise to consider having a child now? Would Matthew be able to find employment? Could he support another in addition to themselves? For all that she had wanted a child before, she was uncertain now. Could she ask that of him? It seemed terribly selfish of her to even think it; how could she bear to  _say_  it?

She had to find a way to put this behind her, to let this stubborn hope go. Tomorrow night she would say yes to him, she decided. She would let him make love to her. She would spend more time on his massage. She would show him that there was truly nothing to be concerned about.

Except, of course, there was.

And so her thoughts swirled, until she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

**Three days later**

It was a clear winter day, the wind calm and the sunlight sparkling across the frozen expanse that rolled by on either side of the car. A cheerful day, Matthew thought, wishing his mood matched it, wishing he knew what was bothering Mary.

Speculation was pointless, he reminded himself. He just needed to be patient. He drew in a deep breath and opened his portfolio with one hand, quickly returning it to the seat beside him, steadying himself against the slight jostling of the car.

"Any errands in addition to visiting Mr Jarvis, sir?" Branson asked.

Matthew looked up. "No. We'll not be out for long today." He flipped over the top sheet of paper to reveal the list of questions he'd prepared for Jarvis, then steadied himself again. "Although I do expect I'll need your help to bring the ledgers back."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, Branson—I meant to thank you for your insights earlier. You were quite right about Mr Jarvis."

Branson nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "Glad to be of help."

Matthew smiled. "That skill will come in handy if you ever go into politics."

"Oh, I won't be doing that, sir." Branson chuckled. "I'd much rather  _write_  about politicians than  _be_  one of them."

"You're a writer, eh?"

Branson shifted. "I shouldn't like to oversell myself, sir. But I do like to put pen to paper from time to time."

Matthew nodded. "I'm afraid I haven't the knack for it."

Branson's eyes flickered to Matthew's in the rear-view mirror. "You might be surprised, sir."

Matthew shrugged, giving him a polite smile, and bent to review the list of questions, but an unexpected flash of reflected sunlight caught Matthew's eye and he looked up. There was a puddle on the floor, beside his left foot.

"Damn," he said, plucking at his trouser leg. A damp stain ran down the inseam of the fabric. When he put his hand under his knee to lift it, his fingers came away wet and he grimaced.

"Is something the matter, sir?" Branson asked.

"Yes," Matthew snapped, then closed his eyes briefly for strength, and righted his features. This wasn't Branson's fault; there was no point in Matthew taking his frustration out on the chauffeur. "I'm afraid we must return to the house." He frowned out the window and muttered, "This is going to make a terrible first impression."

"Of course, sir," Branson answered, his voice quiet. Matthew could see Branson's eyes searching his face in the rear-view mirror and Matthew looked away again, fighting a sense of shame by embracing his anger instead. Branson cleared his throat and said, "I'll need to find a place to turn around."

They continued down the narrow road while Branson scoured the landscape for a likely spot.

An unpleasant, familiar smell reached Matthew's nose, and he flared his nostrils and set his jaw. He was certain that Branson could smell it, too. Matthew's stomach turned, not so much at the smell as with disgust at himself. But such emotions were useless; he returned to scowling at the road that stretched in front of them, unobliging in its continued narrowness.

_Narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it._

_Not now,_  he thought with a scowl. He had no use for religion right now. He felt a touch of reproof, but he frowned harder in response.

Branson cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, sir, for making you late. This is my fault."

"It is absolutely not your fault, Branson," Matthew said sharply.

"If I'd only been more gentle—"

"No," Matthew said. "You did an excellent job. I was the one who insisted on trying to do too much."

Branson frowned but looked at the road again.

"We'll learn how to do this, Branson," Matthew said. "We've only been out for a few days. There's bound to be a learning curve." He tried to give the man a smile.

Branson met his eyes in the mirror and nodded.

They lapsed into silence while the car bumped over a rutted portion of the road and Matthew winced as an unpleasant electric shock ran up his left leg. It ended in a strange, painful—although, thankfully, brief—burning sensation in his lower back. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth until it finally passed.

"Are you in pain, sir?" Branson asked, his tone raised with concern.

Matthew exhaled and opened his eyes, shaking his head. "It's just my damn leg again. Carry on."

When they were on the smooth again, Branson said:

"We don't have to go back, sir."

Matthew's eyes snapped to his in annoyance. "I can't meet Jarvis like this."

"No," Branson agreed, his eyes flickering between Matthew's and the road. "But Lady Mary gave me instructions for just such an event, and Mr Bates put a change of clothing and supplies in the boot."

Matthew raised his eyebrows and blinked at the sudden burning sensation in his eyes. He swallowed thickly, looking out the window with a curt nod. Of course his business was becoming everyone's. He was a useless lump, requiring the intimate care of others just to make it through the mundane activities of his day.

_This is hardly mundane._

He frowned. "I couldn't possibly ask that of you."

"You mostly certainly could," Branson said, his voice quiet, but firm. "It would be my honour."

Matthew blinked back the sting again, giving a short, bitter laugh. "You must be joking."

"I am not."

Matthew met Branson's eyes briefly, saw the resolve in an instant, and looked away, ashamed. Branson was silent.

Matthew contemplated his options. He obviously couldn't arrive in this state. If they went back, he'd be late to the meeting, but presentable. Worse, though, it would draw attention, which would require awkward explanations and the eyes of the entire household would be on him. He hadn't brought a lap-blanket; it would be difficult to hide the signs of his shame. No one would say anything against him, but they would all be thinking that he was trying to do too much, that he ought to settle back and accept his lot and be a good little invalid.

He squared his jaw. No.

So the alternative was to find a way to work with Branson. Matthew scowled at the back of the seat in front of him, then drew in a deep breath and let it out with an angry sigh.

"Very well," he said.

Branson met his eyes in the mirror and nodded. "Very good, sir. I'll find a place to stop."

* * *

"Good night," Isobel said, accepting her handbag from Carson after she finished pulling on her gloves. "I had a lovely evening."

"Good night, Cousin Isobel," Robert answered with a smile. She stepped out into the cold night air, drawing her scarf more securely about her neck. Branson stood beside the car, waiting to open the door when she approached, and his breath curled away into the darkness.

Isobel walked briskly to the car, grateful for the hand up Branson gave her, and Violet nodded at her as she stepped in. After Isobel settled, she looked out the window and smiled at the warm light coming from the entranceway, where she could still see the silhouettes of Carson and Robert as they watched the car leave. Colours sparkled behind them. The family had just put up the huge Christmas tree in the great hall, and talk had been of ornaments and holiday plans and gifts for Edith and Sir Anthony's children, of carolling in the village and the holly to be put on the banister. The great hall smelt wonderfully of pine and fresh wood, and it put a smile on Isobel's face. She glanced at Violet, but the woman wasn't smiling.

Isobel frowned as Branson pulled the car out on to the drive. Not everyone had been filled with good cheer. Mary had put on a good show of it, but Matthew's mood had been muted, his eyes following his wife from time to time. He was polite and talkative enough, to be sure, but Isobel knew her son, and she could recognise when he was out of sorts.

Not to mention that she hadn't seen him and Mary exchange a word all evening, except when he'd begged off early with a headache and had asked her to wheel him back to their rooms.

Isobel had stayed on for a while longer, chatting with Violet and Cora, until Violet declared that she was ready to retire for the evening.

The car jostled along in silence until Violet said, "Did Mary seem out of sorts tonight?"

"I'm not sure," Isobel replied. "But Matthew certainly did."

Violet made a noise and they lapsed back into silence again. What could be done? It wasn't their affair. But oh, it hurt to see.

Isobel couldn't bear the dreary mood. She looked up, put a smile on her face, and spoke to Branson.

"How have your adventures with Mr Crawley gone?" she inquired. "I hear there's talk in the village."

"Oh, aye," Branson replied, as the car trundled along. "There's talk aplenty."

Violet harrumphed. Isobel ignored her.

"How is he doing with it all, Branson?"

Matthew hadn't said much of his outings on behalf of the estate; Isobel knew only that Cousin Robert had dispatched him on some errand. Isobel thoroughly approved, but given Matthew's demeanour this evening, she wondered if it was going well.

Branson seemed to consider his words a moment, and then he said, "Aside from the bother with his leg, Mr Matthew is in good spirits, ma'am." Branson nodded as he spoke, his tone laced with respect. "He's not a man who is easily cowed."

Isobel smiled proudly, but Violet leaned forward.

"What was that about his leg?" the Dowager Countess asked.

Branson shrugged. "The pains and the itching and such, Your Ladyship."

Isobel suddenly sat forward, grasping the back of the seat in front of her as she exchanged a quick glance with Violet.

"Take us back at once," Isobel commanded.

"Ma'am?"

"Branson, take us back to the house  _now_ ," Isobel repeated, her tone brooking no dissent.

Violet looked unimpressed. "It can wait until morning, surely."

Isobel flashed her an annoyed glare. "It  _cannot_."

"Very well, ma'am," Branson replied. They slowed as they reached a wide shoulder in the road, and he carefully turned the car. Violet gave an annoyed huff, but remained silent. Isobel tightened her grip on the seat, wishing they could go even faster as they sped back through the darkness.

* * *

"Do you want me to sleep in my dressing room?" Matthew asked.

"Don't be silly; of course not," Mary replied, adjusting the covers around her hips as she picked up her book. Matthew had one on his lap as well, but he wasn't reading it.

"Is it something I've done?" He paused. "Something I  _can't_  do?"

Mary set down her book with a sigh and turned to look at him. "If you continue to press me, Matthew, you'll make me cross, and then you  _can_  go sleep in your dressing room."

He looked down at his unmoving legs and frowned.

"Fine." He picked up his book and opened it to his bookmark, setting the ribbon down beside his leg. The patch on his thigh was itching again and he sighed, frustrated, then focused on the page before him.

"What was that?" Mary asked sharply.

Matthew lowered his book, frowning at her. He'd just begun to read. Did she want to resume arguing?

"You just scratched your leg," she said. She'd set down her book and now she twisted to face him.

Damn. He'd slipped. He'd been restraining himself from reacting to the false sensations when he was around her, for  _exactly_  this reason.

He dropped his shoulders with a sigh and frowned. "It's nothing. Dr Clarkson says it's just an illusion."

"Never mind Dr Clarkson," Mary replied, sitting forward as a strange light burned in her eyes. "Do you have sensation in your legs?"

Matthew pressed his lips into a flat line, shook his head, and lifted his book again.

But a second later, Mary pulled it down and glared at him.

" _Talk_  to me, Matthew!"

"Oh, that's rich," he said.

She scowled at him, then sagged and sighed and finally sat back. He frowned as he watched her. Mary never backed down from a battle with him.  _What_  was she so afraid of? His heart tugged and he closed his eyes.

_All right, Lord. Fine._

He opened his eyes and waved a hand at his useless legs. "I've been experiencing rather unpleasant, shooting shocks running down the length of my legs, although more often only the left one. There's also a patch just here—" He pressed his palm down on where he  _ought_  to feel it, where his mind told him the sensations were, but of course it was dead to his touch. The sensations weren't real. "—where it itches, then it burns, then it feels as though someone suddenly threw a bucket of cold water on it, then it crawls, then it goes back to itching again. Over and over. It's maddening, really."

Mary stared at where he indicated. "When you touched there, did you feel it?"

"No," he replied, his jaw flexing. "That's how I know it's not real." He looked away with a frown.

Mary was quiet for a long moment.

"It still might be," she finally said, hope in her tone. When Matthew started to protest again, she put up a hand. "Hear me out." She swallowed. "Shortly after your injury, your mother told me—"

There were raised voices outside in the hall and Mary paused as they both turned to look at the door. Matthew repressed his irritation—could the timing have been worse?—and watched as Mary rose and reached for her robe.

Carson's voice became louder as it neared them, still muffled through the wall. "Mrs Crawley, I really must protest—!"

Mary shot Matthew a questioning look as she crossed the room, but he just shrugged. What was his mother  _doing?_

"I  _must_  speak with him at once!" Isobel demanded, and then they heard a firm rapping on their door. "Matthew! Mary! May I have a word?"

With a final grimace of confusion as she glanced at Matthew, Mary pulled open their bedroom door. Isobel, still fully dressed for the winter night and bringing a wave of cool air in with her, stepped through the door, Violet sweeping in silently on her heels.

"Thank you, Carson," Isobel said, and nodded to him to close the door. After a disgruntled look at the back of her head, he did.

Mary and Matthew stared at the two older women.

At Mary's questioning glance, Violet shrugged. "I hate it when all the drama happens offstage."

Isobel shot her a narrowed-eye look, then drew herself up. All business, she went straight to Matthew's bedside. "Is it true what Branson says? That you've been experiencing pains and sensations in your legs?"

Matthew frowned.

"What business is it of Branson's?" Mary asked, glancing at Matthew.

Isobel ignored her, staring at Matthew with raised eyebrows, her hands clasped tightly on her handbag.

Matthew's eyes flickered to Mary's again, and he finally sighed and looked away from both women. The matching looks of nascent hope made him ill. He shook his head.

"He is," Mary replied. "But Dr Clarkson said—"

"Never mind Dr Clarkson," Isobel cut in. Matthew looked up at this with a frown. Why was everyone so quick to discount the doctor's opinion? Isobel stepped forward, her eyes wide. She spoke quickly, passionately. "Listen, Matthew. There was a spinal specialist who consulted on your case, Sir John Coates."

"Yes," Matthew bit out. "He agreed with Clarkson's assessment."

"No," Isobel replied, giving him a significant look. "He didn't."

Matthew's frowned deepened. "What's this?" He glanced at Mary. "You knew?"

Mary nodded mutely, her eyes wide and pained.

"Why didn't you  _tell_  me?" he demanded, looking between both of them. A wild, fluttering thing rose— _No_. He suppressed it angrily. He had only begun to accept his lot! He could not do this—

"Never mind that," Isobel said sharply. "You can take us to task later. What matters now is that there is a chance of recovery! Sir John said that if you ever started to feel sensations in your legs, it would mean that your spinal cord is not fully transected!"

Matthew stared at her. "...What are you saying? That I might  _walk_  again?"

Isobel swallowed. "He couldn't say if you'd make a full recovery."

"But he  _did_  say to contact him immediately in such an event," Mary said. "There's no way to know for sure unless we speak with him."

Matthew stared into the middle distance, dumbfounded. Then he frowned and looked up at his mother.

"Why doesn't Dr Clarkson know this?"

Isobel gave him an unimpressed look. "Dr Clarkson disagreed with Sir John's assessment—for good reason, I will admit—and left before Sir John could tell him that detail, I imagine."

"What reason?" Matthew asked.

"All signs indicated transection," Isobel answered with a sigh. "More than a week had passed since your injury and you still felt nothing. Sir John said the expected recovery time for mere spinal bruising was on the order of hours to days, not weeks. Certainly not months."

Matthew looked away again, his world reeling.

His mother and Mary murmured together a moment, and then Mary said, "Thank you, Isobel, Granny." Violet smiled and gave Mary's hand a brief press.

Matthew watched as his mother joined Violet near the door. Isobel's eyes met his for a long moment.

"This might never change," he said.

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "Or everything might change."

Matthew's heart was pounding in his chest. Hope  _hurt_. He swallowed. "Thank you, Mother."

"What the devil is going on?" they heard Robert demand, and then murmuring outside.

With a final nod, Violet and Isobel went out, Isobel pulling the door closed behind them.

Mary shrugged off her robe as she walked round the bed, and she climbed back in beside him, not meeting his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

She finally looked at him. "Why didn't  _you_  tell  _me?_ "

He swallowed. "I didn't want to raise false hopes."

She nodded, then pressed her lips together as she looked away. Her voice was soft. "I didn't, either." Letting out a shaky breath, she met his gaze again. "I have something else to tell you."

His heart was already pounding. He wasn't sure he could take another blow so soon, but he nodded and waited.

"I've...learned that it is sometimes possible, for some men with...your condition...to father children."

Matthew's eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open as his mind spun. To hear it all at once: that he might walk again, he might still be able to be a father—it was too much. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Mary whispered. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," he breathed, swallowing and opening his eyes again. "I'm glad you did." His throat worked as he looked at her. "Did Sir John tell you that as well?"

Mary's gaze shifted. "No. I learned that...from another doctor. In London." She swallowed.

Matthew's gaze blurred. "The whole time, you were hoping."

But Mary only looked away with a shake of her head. He blinked and reached for her, and she turned towards him, sinking into his arms; he sighed, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. When he felt the slight trembling of her body, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her hair.

"Thank you for telling me," he finally said.

"There's more," Mary murmured against his neck, and he loosened his embrace as she sat back. He searched her face. "We don't have to wait to see that doctor. We might be able to determine if it's possible tonight."

He frowned, his heart sinking as he fought down a lump in his throat. "I  _can't_ , darling..."

"No, not that," she said quickly, and placed a hand on his belly. He felt only half of her palm; the rest was absent. Except on rare occasions, her hands never touched him below where he could feel it; he suspected that she limited herself on purpose. But now... "There's something else. Will you trust me, darling?"

Matthew swallowed and closed his eyes with a nod.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear, and he smiled, his skin tingling pleasantly where her breath touched him. He tightened his arm around her.

No, she had most definitely  _not_  gone off him.

 


	28. Chapter 28

_28_

**10 December 1918**

Mary's hands shook as she turned the pages of the fashion magazine. She didn't regret choosing to wait outside, but listening to the agonised sounds that filtered through the wall was no better. Her mind conjured every image that she had hoped to avoid. She could easily imagine Matthew trying at first to grit his teeth and muffle his cries to spare her, until his self-control broke and she heard how much pain he was truly in.

Once the dam had broken, it only grew worse. She felt, as if in her own body, each turn of the crank. She could mark the minutes between them: the first burst of agony, followed by the wordless pleading and the terrible groans, until those faded into weak moans that she could barely hear, and then the cycle would begin again.

His cries grew weaker with each turn. She strained to listen and yet did not want to hear. Her stomach knotted with dread, and she pressed her trembling palms down against the magazine pages, squeezing her eyes closed and swallowing a sob.

_Dear Lord, please let this torture be worth it!_

If she'd put him through this to no purpose, she would never forgive herself.

"It won't be long now, my lady," Bates murmured.

A long, low moan sounded through the wall and she clenched her teeth as she turned another page.

* * *

_**One hour earlier** _

"We'll need to use traction," Sir John Coates explained, as Mary and Matthew sat in front of his desk.

"How would that work?" Matthew asked.

"We'll attach you to a frame and stretch your body to give the vertebrae the space they need to slip back into position, and we'll use gentle manipulation to ensure they're in place. Once the procedure is completed, you can go."

"Wait—do you mean a—a  _rack?_  As in, the medieval torture device?" Matthew's eyes were wide.

Sir John nodded. "The principles are the same. I won't lie to you: it is quite a painful procedure."

"Can't he be...put to sleep, somehow?" Mary asked.

Sir John grimaced. "I'm sorry, no. The use of ether is contraindicated in your case—" he looked at Matthew. "—due to the increased pressure of your cerebrospinal fluid. We will administer morphine to dull the pain, but the amount required to render you fully unconscious could be life-threatening."

Matthew swallowed and nodded, then exchanged a glance with Mary. He wanted to reach for her hand, but she sat in a stiff, formal posture, her fingers clasped tightly on her handbag as she looked at the doctor.

Sir John pulled a sheet of paper towards him. "You'll require at least a week of bed rest to allow your ligaments sufficient time to recover—no lifting, no propelling yourself in your chair or any of that, just rest—and then you can travel back to Yorkshire. You're staying in London, correct?"

"Yes," Matthew replied. "But is there no other way?"

Sir John pursed his lips. "You could merely wait and see if you regain more sensations without treatment, hoping that the vertebra continues to slip back into place. But recovery is much more likely  _with_  treatment."

"And what kind of recovery should I expect?"

"It's hard to say. You could begin to regain sensation, possibly even a limited degree of control, within hours, although something on the order of days to weeks is more likely, given the duration of your paralysis. Really, every patient is different."

Mary glanced at Matthew before looking back at Sir John. "But is a  _full_  recovery likely?"

The doctor pressed his lips together, giving them a tight smile. "Let's choose to hope for the best, shall we?" At their unhappy looks, he lifted a hand. "I can tell you the results are already promising. Look—" He pointed at the x-ray film again. "—the dislocated vertebra only slipped a little from its original position, and you reported feeling sensations in both legs. That is an excellent sign." He glanced at Matthew, picking up his pen. "When did you say that you began to feel the tingling?"

"The eleventh of November."

"Hm. Fitting." Sir John smiled as he wrote. He glanced up. "And did anything in particular prompt the first sensations? Any strenuous, unusual activity?"

Matthew frowned. "Not that I recall. I was just sitting in my chair at the time."

"New exercises during physio?" Sir John continued. Matthew shook his head. "No spills, or additional trauma?"

"No—wait." Matthew's eyes widened. "They dropped me when they were lifting me out of the bath that morning."

"What?" Mary demanded. "Why didn't you tell me? Who dropped you?"

Matthew shook his head, waving her off. "Never mind that." He looked at Sir John. "I landed badly...and then I felt the first tingling sensations within two hours."

Sir John nodded as he made a quick notation. "Excellent. Thank you." He capped his pen. "Every bit helps. Are you ready to begin?"

Matthew looked at Mary. He brushed her fingers with his own and she immediately took his hand and nodded, squeezing it as she gave him a brave smile. With a deep breath, he turned back to Sir John.

"I am," he said.

* * *

_**One hour later** _

The door opened and Mary looked up from a fashion spread that she wasn't paying attention to. Sir John stood in the doorway, beckoning to her, his lips pressed together in a tight, sympathetic smile. Mary quickly set the magazine aside and gathered up her handbag as she stood. Bates rose beside her, letting her precede him into the room.

Matthew lay on his back on the traction frame, stripped to the waist but no longer restrained. His eyes were closed and his torso rose and fell with his breaths. The doctor's assistant moved around the frame, securing the various straps and pulleys.

"We just gave him some more morphine," Sir John said quietly. "We had to wait until the procedure was finished."

Mary nodded and swallowed, looking at Matthew's face. His skin had a pale, grey pallor, and aside from breathing, he wasn't moving.

"Is he all right?"

Matthew groaned.

"In a manner of speaking," Sir John answered.

"Damn you all to hell," Matthew muttered.

Mary suppressed a smile. "Yes, then."

"The dislocated vertebra is fully back in place now. I found another slight misalignment in the thoracic region and addressed that as well. There should be nothing impeding his recovery, such as it may be."

Hope rose in her heart. "He's being released, then?"

"Yes," Sir John said, nodding as Bates went past and gathered up Matthew's discarded clothing. "The orderlies will jar him as little possible and will ensure that he's comfortable in bed before they leave. The morphine will last for another four or so hours, but once it wears off, he won't be able to be moved without putting him in excruciating pain. He must not be left alone during the night."

"He won't be," Mary replied with a nod. She watched as Sir John's assistant and Bates gently rolled Matthew as they began to dress him. Matthew's eyes remained closed and he winced from time to time, but he seemed too exhausted to be of much help in the process.

She straightened and lifted her chin, warring with her hope. She had to focus on helping him recover. Later, she would let herself think about what the future might hold.

* * *

**18 December 1918**

"Thank you for the offer, but you needn't trouble yourself on my account," Matthew was saying, as Mary entered the bedroom and unpinned her hat. He was sat up in bed, a portfolio on his lap and a heavy, leather-bound ledger lying open beside him.

"It would be no trouble at all," Rosamund replied, from where she sat beside the bed. "If you change your mind, just telephone me." She looked up at Mary and smiled. "Ah, Mary, there you are. I'll leave you two lovebirds in peace." Rosamund rose from her chair.

Mary arched her eyebrow as she crossed the room to set her hat down on the vanity. "Lovebirds? Really?"

Rosamund smirked and patted her niece's cheek, then moved on. "Let me have my amusements, my dear. There aren't many love matches amongst our kind of people."

"You and Uncle Marmaduke seemed to get on rather well," Mary observed, bending to check her reflection.

"Yes, well, I thought I did a passable job of making it appear entirely mercenary," Rosamund replied, her eyes twinkling at Matthew as she reached the bedroom door. "Shall I send anyone up?"

"No," Mary answered. She looked at Matthew, but he shook his head. "I'll see you at dinner. Anna will attend me at the usual hour."

"Very well," Rosamund said with a nod, and she went out, pulling the door closed behind her.

"How was your day?" Mary asked, sitting down at her vanity.

Matthew gestured aimlessly at the ledger, waving his pen over the sheets that lay open before him. "I don't know quite how to put it."

She arched an eyebrow. "Try."

"Looking through the books..." He grimaced slightly. "There seems to be a great deal of waste."

"What do you mean?" She began removing her earrings.

"Well, as far as I can tell, there's been no proper management for years. Rents are unpaid, or far too low. There's no real maintenance scheme. And half the assets are underused or else ignored entirely."

Mary twisted to look at him, frowning. "You're not saying Papa is guilty of anything?"

"Not in that way, no. Of course not."

She turned back to the mirror and unclasped her necklace. "I don't want to pull rank, Matthew, but a country estate is not a city business. There are people, many people, we have to look after—"

He shook his head. "But nobody benefits when the thing is badly run."

Mary set down the necklace and regarded him with a frown. "Obviously, if that's your impression, you must talk it through with Papa," she said stiffly.

Matthew grimaced and looked away. "I know. I'm rather dreading the prospect."

Mary's expression softened and she rose. She went over and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in to give him a brief kiss. "Never mind that now," she said, closing the ledger. "You should be resting, not worrying about Papa. What was Aunt Rosamund going on about earlier?"

Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes. "She seems quite set on making arrangements for me with her one of her property managers in Manchester. I'm grateful for the vote of confidence, of course, but I'd rather find my own way." He grimaced at his legs. "Not to mention that it's a bit premature."

"What arrangements?"

"For a position."

"Manchester, hmm?" Mary pursed her lips.

"You don't object to the city, do you? Given my specialty, it's the most likely place to find a firm that will take me." He leaned across to put his portfolio and the ledger on the bedside table.

She smiled. "It's strange to recall that you're an industrial lawyer. I've grown so accustomed to thinking of you as a 'mere country solicitor'." She smirked. "How ever will you manage to engage my interest without muddy trousers?"

He gave her an amused look as he straightened up again. "I'll just—"

Matthew hissed and grabbed his leg, his face screwing up in pain.

"Is it seizing?" she asked, immediately standing and turning back the covers. He nodded, his breathing strained, as he kneaded at the rock-hard, knotted muscle in his thigh. She joined the effort, massaging the length of the muscle until it finally relaxed. He sank back against the pillow with a ragged sigh, his chest rising and falling with his breaths.

"At least it's a good sign," he muttered. "I just wish it didn't hurt so damned much."

"Is it getting worse?"

He shook his head. "I'm feeling more of these cramps. I'm taking that as 'getting better'."

Mary smiled and sighed. "Are you ready to stretch?"

"Yes..." But he closed his eyes, looking weary. Mary understood his reluctance. Stretching the muscles always brought on more of the painful spasticity, but once the discomfort in Matthew's joints had subsided, Sir John had been most insistent that the regimen be carefully followed. The practice would help to ensure that Matthew's legs would be ready to support his weight, should he ever be able to walk again. His continuing improvement, although slow, was giving them both cause for hope, but it was not easy in coming.

Mary rose from the bed and crossed to the fireplace, checking whether the hot-water bottles were sufficiently warmed. Satisfied, she began to undress, stripping down to her chemise. By the time she returned to the bed with the heated bottles, Matthew had pushed down the covers and gotten himself into a reclining position. He twisted, reaching up to pull the pillows from under his head, and then he straightened as best he could. Mary adjusted his legs and made sure the catheter was secure, then climbed on to the bed and began the stretching routine.

"What did Dr Ryder say? Did you get to see him?" Matthew asked, when she let up from carefully pressing his bent leg against his stomach and straightened it out, gently moving it into a different position.

"Yes. He agreed that we ought to wait for the outcome of your recovery before scheduling a visit." She pressed Matthew's leg again, watching his face for signs of discomfort. There were none. "He has the distinction of being the only person who is  _disappointed_  by the possibility of your being able to walk again. He covered it well, but I think he was eager to make an experiment of us."

"I can't say I was looking forward to  _that_  part of it," Matthew replied, grunting softly as she pressed again.

"No, nor I."

"Did you find the field kit for Edward?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, but it required three shopkeepers conferring until one could finally tell me of another store that might have all the necessary pieces. Who knew it was so difficult to find a box that merely contained a magnifying glass and a sufficient collection of small glass jars?"

"He's going to love it," Matthew said.

"He's going to fill it with dirt and dead insects. I'll never hear the end of it from Mama," Mary replied.

Matthew smiled. "Don't forget the snakes."

"How could I?" She shook her head. "If anyone starts shrieking in the nursery, I'm going to put all the blame on you."

He laughed. "That's fair."

Mary set down one leg and lifted the other. She worked for a minute in silence, then said, "I've been thinking about what to do for Anna and Bates."

Matthew frowned in thought. "When does the decree become—" He grunted softly as Mary straightened his leg and pressed on it. "—absolute?"

"The thirty-first of January."

"What are their plans? Will they stay on?"

Mary bent his knee gently. "Yes, and Papa will give them a cottage."

"That's unusual, isn't it?"

Mary shrugged. "No more unusual than a valet marrying a housemaid." She smiled. "She really loves him."

Matthew chuckled and sighed, rolling on to his side as Mary indicated, and she continued the stretching routine.

"So what were you thinking?" he asked. "Will you decorate the cottage?"

"Of course not. That's Anna's right; I would never presume. No...I was thinking of asking Mama if I might make up a room in one of the guest wings, to give them a place away from the rest of the household."

"Won't the cottage be ready?"

"No, Jarvis says it won't be for a few weeks yet, and they can't possibly take possession of it until after they're married, in any event." Mary released Matthew's leg and gestured for him to roll to his other side, and he complied, with her assistance. "I thought...for their first night, at least, they ought to have a nice room. It's the least we can do."

"It's a lovely idea," he answered, and turned his head to smile proudly up at her. She looked away, fighting a smile of her own as warmth rose in her cheeks, and he rested his hand on hers and squeezed gently. After a moment, she withdrew her hand from his grasp and helped him roll on to his back again.

He tried to straighten himself out, but hissed and reached for one of his legs, so she spent a short while massaging the hardened muscle. Matthew lay looking at the ceiling, his teeth clenched as he breathed through it, but he made no sound, except to sigh in relief when the muscle finally relaxed. Mary wrapped towels around the hot-water bottles and put them in the usual places beside his legs, then drew the covers up over herself and Matthew, re-adjusted the pillows, and burrowed against him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Edward's was the last of the Christmas gifts," Mary said.

"I'm sorry that we're going to miss his birthday."

"That's all right. I'm sure if you give him a ride in your chair, all will be forgiven."

Matthew chuckled. "Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes." Mary smiled. "Very much."

"Me, too."

With a mutual sigh of contentment, they settled into a peaceful nap until dinner-time.

* * *

**20 December 1918**

"That looks sturdy," Sybil observed, causing Tom to look up from the frame he was building. Sybil peered at it. "Is that for Matthew's chair?"

Tom nodded and lifted the frame, setting it down on the car's luggage rack to inspect how well it fit.

"I thought you'd already made a frame," she said, drawing closer and leaning against the car as she pushed her hands into her pockets. She was bundled in her winter coat, hat, and gloves, the hem of her nurse's uniform visible beneath the coat. He noted that she was early for her usual shift at the hospital.

He smiled and tossed his head towards a corner of the garage, where the first frame lay. "I did, but it was a jury-rig. Mr Bates and I had to come up with something quickly." Tom shrugged. "This is better built."

"I'm sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but you might have wasted your time."

His eyes snapped to hers and he frowned. "What?"

She gave him a bright smile. "Mary and Matthew and Aunt Rosamund are coming in on the four o'clock, and Mary says that Matthew has got more feeling in his legs!" Sybil nearly bounced in her excitement, and Tom grinned.

"That's not bad news at all," he said.

"But your frame..." she gestured at it.

"He's not walking yet, is he?" Tom asked, his eyebrows raised. "Mr Matthew will likely need his chair for some time yet, and now I can manage all the luggage  _and_  his chair without His Lordship needing to hire a second car."

Sybil shifted and frowned slightly. "Why should you care whether my father hires a second car? No one thinks less of you for it."

"No, I know," Tom answered, frowning and lifting the frame off the luggage rack again. He set it down beside his workbench and went to work adding another pair of joists, now that the overall size and shape of the frame was correct. "I just don't like waste."

Sybil had been smiling as she watched him work, but when he looked up at her with a question in his eyes, her smile fell and she looked away.

"Do you need more time?" he asked, steeling himself.

She pushed off from the car and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Where would we go?"

He paused and swallowed. "As far as we could, until we had to stop for the night, and then I would find you a room at an inn. Dublin, after that—we should be able to reach it within a day or so—and then...I'd bring you to meet my family."

"Where are they?"

"My mam and my sisters' families are in Dublin," he replied. "My brother is in Liverpool."

"When would we marry? Would we go to Graetna Green first?"

"No, I'll not hide among strangers," he answered. "You could live with my mam while the banns are read, and we'll be married with my family there to witness it." He lifted his chin. "You could invite your family, as well."

Sybil raised her eyebrows in disbelief at that, and he glanced down before meeting her gaze again.

"And where do you wish to settle?" she asked.

Tom set down his tools and straightened to his full height, taking a step closer to her. She did not move away, but he paused. "I'll be honest with you. I don't know for certain yet. Dublin, to begin with. I have a little money saved, enough to last us the first year or two." He swallowed. "I thought I would try my hand at journalism, but it might mean some travel."

Sybil looked intrigued. "Do you like to write?"

Tom smiled, relaxing slightly, and put his hands in his pockets. "I do."

"And what would you expect of me?"

"What do you mean?"

Sybil narrowed her eyes. "That I would travel everywhere with you, keep house for you, be merely a wife and a mother?"

Tom drew in a deep breath and pulled his hands out of his pockets. "There's nothing 'mere' about being either a wife or a mother," he answered quietly. "But no, I don't want a maid-of-all-work, or a kept woman." He swallowed. "I want to continue our friendship, for the rest of our lives. I want a partner to share in all of life's joys and struggles. We'll find our way  _together_." He smiled and put his hands back in his pockets, looking at her with a firm gaze. "Your light is far too bright a thing for me to ever want to quench it."

Sybil's lips tugged up. "You  _do_  have a way with words."

Tom chuckled, his heart lifting again. "Is that a 'yes'?"

"No, it isn't," Sybil replied, with no rancor in her tone. "But you've given me more to think about."

"Good," he answered, reaching for his chauffeur's cap and tugging it on. He smirked as he stepped closer to her—she stepped back, smiling slightly—and he opened the car door. "I'm glad to hear that you've been thinking about me, my lady."

Sybil suppressed a smile as she settled herself inside, and Tom closed the door.

There was a spring in his step as he went round the car and climbed into the driver's seat.

* * *

**24 December 1918**

Matthew was only vaguely aware of when Mary rose from the bed. The mattress shifted, and the sudden billow of cool air made him drag the covers back down and burrow further into his pillow. She would return soon. He drifted off.

She slid back up against him, bringing coolness and warmth, and he slipped his arm around her automatically, pulling his face back as a wisp of her hair tickled his upper lip. He waited patiently while she adjusted her position. She shifted her hips, getting comfortable, and he hummed pleasantly, half-awake, at the sensation of her bottom moving against him. He pressed his hips forward slightly to accommodate her and fit against her more snugly and she responded in kind.

Mmm. That felt  _good_.

His eyes flew open as he gasped. He started to tremble, not daring to move or speak, not wanting to do anything that would make him lose  _this_. The urge to press himself harder against her—oh God, to do  _more_ —woke him up with all the force of a bucket of cold water.

His skin prickled and felt flushed. The hair on his neck stood on end. There was an intense heat and an almost painful swelling and pulsing throughout his groin and thighs. Something tugged unpleasantly against him and it was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

Mary had pulled away when he gasped and she twisted to face him now.

"I'm sorry, darling," she whispered. "I hadn't meant to wake you."

Matthew could only shake his head, frowning, his sleep-fogged brain too distracted by the flood of familiar/unfamiliar sensations. The tugging discomfort was becoming painful now—

_The catheter!_

He shoved back the covers and fumbled with the tie of his pyjama trousers.

"God! Oh God—ow! Ow, oh—" He gritted his teeth.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked, staring at him in alarm.

He hissed, pushing his hand under the layers of fabric and clawing for the catheter line. His hand felt clumsy from sleep and the nappy fastenings limited his movements.

He finally grasped the line and pulled it up. The pain faded and he drew his hand out and sagged in relief.

"Matthew?" Mary asked, worry lacing her tone.

He swallowed as he looked at her, and then he slowly grinned. Reaching up, he cupped her face with one hand and pressed his lips against hers, growl-humming in happiness. She kissed him back, surprise delaying her response.

"All you quite all right?" she asked.

"Yes!" he laughed. He felt a slight tug once again and he frowned, looking down at himself. "Would you help me? I want to remove my line."

Mary blinked. "Remove your... Now? Are you certain?"

"Yes." He grinned again. "I no longer need it."

She drew in a sharp breath and covered her mouth with her hand.

He nodded, beaming at her.

Mary quickly sat up and worked an arm under his hips to help him tug his trousers down, then undid the nappy fastenings. She made quick work of the tape and it stung, but he was overjoyed that he could feel the sensation. He pulled his hands back to prop himself up on his elbows as she carefully worked the line out. It didn't feel uncomfortable until the last inch or two, and then he hissed.

"Sorry! Sorry. It's out," she said, awkwardly holding up the end of the line above him. He flopped back on to the bed and exhaled, smarting from the assault. She stared at him in silence.

He'd lost the erection by this point, but now he could quite distinctly feel the cool air blowing over his skin and although it tingled oddly—could he even remember what normal felt like?—he  _felt_. He drew in a few shuddering breaths as his heart pounded in his chest. The hair on his legs prickled. His feet were cold.

His feet were  _cold_.

"Why am I not wearing any socks?" he asked.

Mary made a disbelieving sound. "Socks?"

"My feet are cold," he said. "I always sleep with socks on in winter."

"Summer, too," she murmured.

"Only on cool nights," he said defensively.

Mary giggled. Matthew frowned, then remembered, and gave a short laugh and shook his head, relaxing back on to his pillow again.

"Oh my  _God_ ," he breathed, unsure whether it was a prayer or merely an exclamation of awe. Both, he supposed.

Mary started to move and then paused, seeming unsure of what to do with the open end of his catheter line. He took it carefully from her. She climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water running and then she came out a minute later.

"I need light," she said.

"Go ahead." He closed his eyes.

She turned on the lamp and went round the bed to start rummaging in the bottom drawer of the armoire. Matthew tried to wiggle his toes. After an instant, he felt—and saw!—them moving slightly against the covers. He tried again and they felt more familiar. He bent his knees and watched them rise in front of him, but his legs were  _heavy_ , and his thighs trembled. He held his knees up for as long as he could, just to test himself, and then let them fall. His muscles tired easily, much more quickly than he remembered. They ached and trembled and there was a twitch in his right thigh. He would need a new course of physio again. But he  _felt_. He tried to take in the idea that the whole horrible time was at an end. He might need a walking stick for the rest of his life, but he promised himself that he was going to  _walk_  again. He would work as hard and as long as it took to make it happen.

_Oh my God..._

He focused on the sensation of having his whole body back, of having legs, feet, and toes again, and a giddy laugh escaped him. The pins-and-needles prickling had receded, and he was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to feel the carpet between his toes.

He heard Mary's footsteps pad across the floor and then the bed dipped near his feet.

"Will these do?"

He opened his eyes. A pair of brown socks hung from her hand.

"Actually..." he answered, pushing himself up on his elbows, "I want to put my bare feet on the floor first. Just to feel it."

She blinked rapidly and looked at him with raised brows, pressing her lips together. Then she swallowed and nodded and set down the socks.

He gestured with the line. "Can you help me with this?"

"Of course." She made quick work of repurposing the tape to cap the end of the line, then retrieved the necessary supplies. After she helped him clean his hand and the line, he started trying to work his pyjama trousers off his ankles so he could remove the line entirely, since it was still strapped down the length of his leg. She returned from disposing of the soiled linens and assisted with his task, whisking his nappy away in the process.

"This  _does_  mean, however," she said, coming back and bending over to drop the coiled line on to the floor beside the bed, "that you will wake me if you want to rise tonight. No heroics."

"Yes, all right," he said, then smiled. A part of him that had long been dormant was suddenly awake and thriving, eager to be stimulated. He was on the verge of making a comment to this effect when he paused. Voicing such a proposal now would probably qualify as heroics, not to mention that he had no idea if he could even follow through. Given how little strength he had in his legs, their options would be severely limited.

"Do you need to go now?" Mary asked, dragging him away from contemplating just what their options were. "Because I don't want to be awakened five minutes after I fall asleep."

"No."

They regarded one another for a long moment. Finally, Mary asked:

"Does it hurt?"

"A little. Less so than it did a few minutes ago." He shifted his legs, which still felt much heavier than he expected. "Everything's rather weak."

"I suppose that's to be expected."

"Yes."

He wiggled his toes again and grinned, feeling as though the joy of just being able to move them would never recede. The carpet. Right. He hauled himself up into a sitting position, relying only on his upper-body strength out of sheer habit. There was no ache where he expected it: he was surprised by how strong the muscles in his abdomen felt, although he couldn't remember having consciously used them in months. Well, not the bottom halves of them, anyway. It was curious that the whole muscles seemed to have responded to the strength training even if he hadn't known he was controlling them. He smiled and started trying to twist his legs towards the edge of the bed, glorying in the sensation of the bedsheets moving across his skin. Mary quickly moved to help him shift his legs, guiding his feet to the floor.

He sighed as he pressed his toes into the carpet and grasped the fibers between them, running his feet around in small circles. The bliss! He couldn't move his feet very far without his calves threatening to seize, but the softness of the carpet was heaven beneath his soles. Whoever had selected this carpet had made a wonderful choice.

Mary watched Matthew carefully, making sure that he wasn't about to fall off the bed. Most of his weight rested on his arms; his legs dangled and moved slightly. When she was satisfied that he was stable, she chanced a glance at his face and was surprised by the look of pure pleasure there. His eyes were closed and his mouth hung open, half smiling. He moaned. Something deep inside her squeezed.

"Who chose this carpet? You?"

Mary stared at him. "The carpet?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her with an enormous grin. "Yes! This wonderful carpet! It's perfect!"

"The carpet."

He laughed. "I know I sound mad. Do I sound mad?"

She squinted playfully and tilted her head to the side. "Just a bit."

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, and hauled himself backwards to flop on to the bed, throwing out his arms. "This feels glorious!"

"Shhh!" Mary laughed. She climbed on to the bed and sat next to him. She was trembling and still trying to accept what she was seeing. It was all so sudden; he was so ebullient. She knew what she wanted to do in this moment—tear off his pyjama shirt and straddle him—but she held her hands together in her lap instead. Although she'd felt it when his body had begun to awaken earlier, it was likely a bit premature to expect something of him. He'd had brief, involuntary erections for months and they hadn't meant anything; she was accustomed to dismissing them. He would tell her when he was ready.

"My feet are still cold," he said, grinning.

Shaking her head and chuckling, she retrieved his socks and tugged them on to his feet. He wiggled his toes playfully against her fingers, making her gasp, and he even helped to lift each foot, a little. She blinked back tears and pressed her lips together, smiling.

"Here, let's get your trousers back on," she said, picking the garment up and starting to move towards him.

"Never mind that," he said. "I'm fine."

"But it's cold in here."

"I'm wearing socks."

They burst into a fit of giggles. He twisted up and pulled her down beside him, drawing her into his arms. As he squeezed her, he gave a loud, happy growl.

"Shhh! You'll wake someone up!" she squeaked, trying to break his hold on her so she could draw in a full breath.

They giggled some more as his arms relaxed.

"What time is it?" he asked, lifting his head to try to look past her to see his bedside clock.

She twisted round and glanced over her shoulder. "A little before midnight," she answered.

"Plenty of time," he said.

"For what?"

"For sleeping later," he answered. "I want to stand."

She pushed herself up on her elbows and frowned down at him. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"All right."

So they got him back to the edge of the bed and, although he leaned his weight heavily on her, eventually they were standing beside it. He managed about five wobbly seconds before she carefully helped him lower himself to the bed again. Mary stood back. By this point, his pyjama shirt was twisted around him from the movements of her arms.

"If we try again, we need to do something about this shirt," he said, wincing as he untwisted it.

She eyed him critically. "It's not your best look," she admitted.

He smirked and managed to nudge her foot with his own, although she was certain from the expression on his face that if his legs had been in good working order, he would have hooked one of them around hers from behind and pulled her towards himself.

"Fine," he said, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you—? It's  _cold_  in here!"

"You said it wasn't flattering," he answered, grinning. She watched him get to the last button and pull the shirt off his—she had to admit, beautiful—shoulders.

"What, and you think this is?" She gestured at his now-naked form.

He laugh-growled and lunged for her. "Come here, woman."

She gave a small shriek as he pulled her against himself with arms that were in fine working order.

"Shhh!" he commanded mock-seriously. "You'll wake someone up!"

"God, I  _hope_  so," she replied, wriggling against him. He buried his face between her breasts, his shoulders shaking with laughter. She couldn't help but giggle with him. She knew they were a bit delirious, but she couldn't stop herself. She'd just helped him to  _stand!_

He drew back and looked up at her. "Do you mean it?" he asked.

"Mean what?"

"Do you want to make love?"

"What? Now?"

He pulled a face. "No,  _later_. Of course now."

She stood back in his arms, aware that he was steadying himself on the edge of the bed by holding on to her. "Can you?"

"I don't know," he answered with a growing smile. "But I want to try."

She was already well on her way to being ready and she smiled in return. She didn't know if it was medically advisable, but she  _wanted_  this. She would of course stop the moment he seemed to be in any discomfort. There was no point rushing things, even if her body was crying out to  _rush rush rush oh yes please rush_.

She laughed. "Yes, please."

He grinned as she bent down to kiss him. He ran his hands down her back and settled them with a very satisfying grip on her bottom. They both moaned happily and he pulled back from the kiss with a smile.

"God, this feels so good!" he breathed, his voice breaking.

Tears suddenly sprang into his eyes and his arms came up to hold the middle of her back again. She cradled his head against her chest and fought back her own tears. This was madness! She wanted to sob and laugh all at once.

She pressed her lips into his hair and enjoyed his scent and his warmth; the room really was a bit chilly. The softness of the carpet did nothing to warm her bare feet.

He drew back with a soft inhalation and nodded, then twisted to look behind himself at the bed. "Our options are limited," he observed.

"Oh, don't worry," she murmured, pulling him back for another kiss, a plan already forming in her mind.

He smiled against her lips. "I'm not."

"But I  _am_  cold," she said. "Under the covers is the only option for me tonight."

"That works for me," he said. "But first—" He ran his hands down her body, slipping them under the edge of her nightgown and drawing them back up, bringing the gown with them. Her eyes closed and she held his shoulders to steady herself, feeling his legs tremble against her as he put weight on them; he'd slid forward slightly when he'd lunged for her. When his rising hands reached her breasts he paused, brushing against the sides of them and humming with pleasure. She smiled and quickly finished slipping the nightgown over her head while he kept her breasts warm with his hands. He made a pleased sound, then removed his hands and gently tugged her pants down around her hips. She shimmied and he laughed, sitting back to watch her step out of the garment, his eyes roaming over her appreciatively. She enjoyed watching his expression, but she  _was_  chilled. She shivered, resisting the urge to cover her chest.

"Come, let's warm you up," he said, and hauled himself back on to the bed. She climbed over him and helped him swing his legs as he lay down and then, settling in beside him, she pulled the blankets up over their shoulders. The fabric was cool; she pressed in against him for warmth and hummed, happy to be back in his embrace. He sighed and she closed her eyes. They had not lain wholly naked beside one another since his last leave, nearly a year earlier. They relaxed into a comfortable silence, enjoying the contact.

"Should I lead?" she asked after a while, when the coolness had receded and her shivering had long since faded away.

"If you like." He grinned and ran his hand across her back. "I've always enjoyed it when you do."

She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him. "Stop me if anything doesn't feel…right."

"Of course."

Mary didn't move at first. It had been so long since she had done this that she was reluctant to begin too quickly. She felt as though she were rediscovering him, and she tried to remember how to begin. Surely working up to things gradually wouldn't be objectionable. She ran her fingers across his chest, smoothing the hair there, listening to his breathing and feeling his reactions, trying to gauge his responses against her distant memories. He remained relaxed and surprisingly patient. She imagined that if their positions were reversed, she might want more, and quickly. Following this thought, she drifted her hand lower and heard his breathing change. She smiled. He was ready.

Her fingers ran aground in his thick curls and he moved against her slightly. His body was already well awake. Smiling more widely, she slipped her fingers down the length of him. He gave a shuddering gasp and tightened his arm around her, arching his back and thrusting against her hand in one sinuous movement. Her body tightened in response and a coil of arousal warmed her. She grinned, looking up at his face and seeing exactly what she expected. This felt familiar. Eager to elicit more delicious responses from him, she started to move her hand again, but his hand quickly closed over hers.

"Too much. Need a moment," he managed, then relaxed his arm around her, his chest moving as he drew in a few steadying breaths. She lifted her head to watch him. This was unusual.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded, his eyes closed, and smiled. "Quite."

She pressed a kiss to his lips. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be," he replied, reaching across with his free hand to hold her breast, pressing it gently before resting a moment. "It's just been a while."

She laughed. "That's an understatement."

"Yes," he said with a smile, and kissed her again. "Just…go slowly. It's not going to take much."

"So…just kissing for now?" she asked, rising and stretching out carefully atop him.

"Mmmm," he said, putting his arms around her as she kissed him. "This is nice…but no, not just..." He hummed as their lips met again. "...kissing."

"Well then," she said, starting to clamber off him again.

"Wait!" he protested, smiling as he tightened his arms around her. "Relax, darling. You seem nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her, and she sighed.

"All right. I am, a bit."

He frowned, his hands stroking her arms. "Why?"

She shrugged, gestured, then turned it into running her fingers through his hair. After a moment, she pulled her elbows up and propped them on either side of his head, continuing to play with his hair. He closed his eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you, or disappoint you, I suppose," she admitted.

"You won't," he answered, his eyes still closed. His hands moved down to rest on her haunches. "You're a wonderful lover."

Her hands paused in his hair. She didn't feel like a wonderful lover. Inexplicably, she wanted to cry, but that was ridiculous.

She pulled her hands out of his hair and rested her temple on the pillow beside his head, trying to regain her composure. Her emotions were in turmoil right now; everything had changed so suddenly and she was unprepared for it all. She had been eager before, but now she felt the weight of responsibility. She didn't want to disappoint him but she felt as though she already had.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, urging her to pull back. She acquiesced but didn't meet his eyes.

"Mary?"

She drew in a deep breath, exhaled. The urge to cry was passing, thankfully. She looked at him. "I'm fine. Don't mind me." She smiled.

He smoothed the hair at the sides of her face. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "It's just all so sudden." Her eyes drifted away from his face. "We've had so little time together and when we did there was always a sense of urgency." She frowned. "Then when you finally came home for good, I had to keep reminding myself not to look forward to…this." She glanced at him. There was a frown hovering on the edges of his expression as his hands slid down to rest on her lower back. "I know we sometimes…still did something for me, but I never felt comfortable asking you."

"You know I never minded," he said. "I enjoyed it."

"Yes, but…" she closed her eyes. "It felt so selfish."

She heard him exhale; he sounded annoyed. "I'm your husband, Mary. It's my responsibility to ensure you're sexually satisfied."

She winced but tried to hide it. She didn't like talking about this. It never came easily, even with him.

She felt his fingers run along the side of her face.

"Poor choice of words," he said softly. "My privilege."

She dropped her head down to rest in the crook of his neck again. "Mine, too," she whispered, her lips beside his ear. His arms tightened around her briefly and then she pulled back again and looked down at him. "Which is why I don't want to disappoint you now, most especially," she said. "It's been  _so long_ , Matthew! Months of reminding myself not to think of you in this way. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

He frowned. "You hiding yourself was what made me uncomfortable. Remember what I asked of you at the very beginning?"

"Honesty," she whispered.

He nodded.

She looked away from him again. "But it's been difficult, being whole when—" she cut herself off.

"—when I'm not," he finished. He swallowed, rubbed her back. "I know." They looked at one another for a long moment and then she slipped one arm under his shoulders, returning to her spot beside his head and resting her other hand against his hair. "God, Mary, I'm so sorry," he murmured.

She gave a disbelieving laugh. "You, apologising." She shook her head against his neck. "Don't you dare."

"I already did," he answered, and she felt his smile against her cheek. His fingers ran up and down her back slowly; they felt wonderful and she relaxed against him with a sigh. "I meant what I said earlier," he continued. "You won't disappoint me, Mary. You're magnificent."

She laughed and shook her head, breathing in his skin, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

He gave her bottom a fond squeeze. "For someone who portrays such confidence in public, you're a right mess in private."

She gave a huff of indignation and lightly slapped his shoulder as she pulled back. "You're one to talk, Mr I'm-Releasing-You."

"Fair point," he conceded, smiling. "We both need the other to sort us out."

"Speak for yourself, Mr Crawley," Mary said. "I was sorting myself out just fine."

Matthew laughed, and Mary kissed him to shut him up. He hummed and squirmed beneath her and all of her indignation and fear fled, quickly replaced by warmth and an eagerness to enjoy him. His fingers ran up her back and she shivered pleasantly and broke the kiss to lose herself in the sensations that he was evoking.

Matthew revelled in the pleasure of his wife's body wrapped around his own. He loved the way she arched her back as he ran his fingers lightly over it. He'd almost forgotten what this felt like, watching her give herself to him in this way. He lifted his head and kissed the hollow of her throat and she moaned. Her breasts drifted against his chest and he smiled, feeling warm.

Too warm, in fact.

"Actually," he said. "I'm feeling a bit warm. Would you help me with my socks?"

"Now?"

"Please?"

"You and your socks," she muttered, rolling her eyes before kissing him again. He just smirked at her.

She slid down under the covers and groped for his feet. He moved his legs as much as he could to give her easier access and she tugged off his socks, pressing a few kisses to his skin as she did. When she was finished, she tickled his sole and he jerked away.

"Hey!" he called, as she laughed. He didn't enjoy being tickled, but he was willing to forgive her this once. After a long moment of not seeing her move, though, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm just trying something," she replied, her voice muffled by the blankets.

He waited, then frowned. "I can't feel anything. Are you doing something?"

"No."

"Then what are you—?"

"I'm going slowly, like you said."

He made an annoyed sound. "Not  _that_  slowly."

"Oh? Well then—" and she bent down and took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around him. His whole body tightened in shocked pleasure and he made a strangled sound. She gave a low laugh.

" _God_ , Mary!" he moaned, and writhed a bit when she continued. She hummed against him and he arched slightly and pushed his head back into the pillow. She kept modifying her approach, finding new ways to drive him mad. He let out a loud groan, his whole body tensing.

Mary was enjoying herself immensely. She'd missed this, the effect that she could have on him. After a short while she rose up, lifting the blankets, and looked at him. When she'd released him, he had given a little moan, but he now he lay breathing quietly, his eyes closed and his mouth open. He looked as though he were savouring the moment and she smiled. He was beautiful.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I...mmm..." he answered faintly after a moment, his eyes still closed.

She smiled and started to crawl back up to the head of the bed.

"Why did you...stop?" he asked, opening his eyes to watch her while she positioned herself above him.

"You seemed ready," she answered. She gathered the edge of the blankets and grasped them in her hands to secure them over her body and keep herself warm.

"I was so  _close_ ," he sighed.

"Good," she said, and started to move her hips down.

His eyes widened and he put his hands on her legs. "Wait. I can't do this now."

She frowned. "Why not?"

"I'm on too fine a point. I won't be able to maintain it for as long as you'll want."

She leaned down and kissed him. "After all the lovely nights you've given me, receiving nothing in return," she replied, "this is the  _least_  I can do. Don't worry about me."

He blinked, smiled, and pulled her head back down, kissing her passionately. After he released her, she felt him moving, and when it felt right, she slowly settled down on to him. They gave a mutual groan of pleasure and his hands returned to her hips, keeping her still.

"Just…a moment," he gasped, breathing through it, his eyes squeezed closed. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought him in pain. She smiled, sensing the strength of his reaction through the pressure of his hands. She felt the urge to squeeze her inner muscles but restrained herself, knowing he would not thank her for it, not in this moment.

She closed her eyes and exhaled, marvelling that she was  _finally_  enjoying him in this way again after so long. He was healed…healing, with her. The urge to cry came over her again and she drew in another deep breath, letting it pass. When she felt him moving tentatively within her, she matched him, eager for more, but she let him set the pace.

His eyes closed and his brow creased in concentration. She could felt him tense...but after a long moment, his hips slowed and he grunted wearily. His hands relaxed on her legs and he sighed.

"You're so  _wet!_ " he murmured, a pleased moan at the edges of his words. "But—"

The timbre of his voice had sent a tingle through her and she squeezed inside before she'd realised she was doing it.

His whole body curved up towards her for a moment and he moaned in earnest, then gave a kind of pained grunt as he fell back. "Too much—" he managed.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realise—"

"'s all right," he said, catching his breath. He opened his eyes. "I want to finish, but I can't… I don't have the strength. My legs…nearly cramped." There was an apology in his eyes.

She smiled in understanding and bent down to kiss him for a long moment.

"Let me," she said softly, as she readjusted the position of her hands on the edges of the blankets. He looked up at her, tears glistening in his eyes. He lifted his hands to cup her breasts a moment, running his thumbs lightly over her skin. Then he settled his hands on her hips again and gave a nod. She began to move, slowly at first, watching his face. Her body cried out for more pressure, so she slowed. He looked at her in question.

"I want to squeeze," she explained.

"All right. Just…gently," he answered. She nodded. She moved again, this time beginning to apply just a little pressure in a rhythm that she remembered he liked. She watched his eyes roll back as they fluttered closed, and his mouth fell open. She hummed and continued her deliberate movements, watching his face and noting the pressure of his hands. She felt him begin to tense and she tightened a bit more inside as she moved. A moment later, he made an inarticulate noise and rocked beneath her. She smiled and continued her movements, not slowing until he relaxed with a long sigh.

Bending down to rest against him, she laid her head near his and pressed a kiss to his neck. His hands twitched against her thighs.

After a couple minutes, he turned his head towards her. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome, darling," she answered, kissing his neck again. He lay breathing beneath her, quiet, and then his hands came up and he began to rub her back.

"What about you?" he asked softly.

She shook her head against his neck. "I'm content. I have what I wanted: to see you and feel you like this again."

Matthew pressed a kiss against her temple, revelling in the feel of her feet sliding against his legs as she shifted slightly, still atop him.

"I wish I could give you something," he said. "To thank you."

"You already have," she assured him and then, after a pause, in a different tone of voice: "and perhaps…"

He frowned. "Perhaps what?"

She shrugged, lifting her head to look down at him, and stroked her fingers through his hair. There was a small, mysterious smile playing on her lips.

He frowned, smiled. "What is it?"

"Just hope," she said. "For the future. Perhaps a family after all."

He drew in a breath, his heart leaping and then falling. "Yes," he replied, blinking. "Yes, I do hope so." He looked away from her, swallowing.

Mary frowned. She thought he'd be happy at the prospect, after everything he'd told her.

When he saw her frowning at him, he grimaced. "Before, I'd begun to think there might be something wrong with me," he explained slowly. "That I needed to see someone. I suppose now I  _really_  ought to."

"You oughtn't to do anything of the sort," she said. She paused, gathered herself. "In fact, it was me."

Matthew stared at her. "What do you mean?"

She looked away. "It required a small operation."

"What?! When?"

"Late March."

"Not long after my last leave," he mused.

"About six weeks afterwards. When you'd disappeared, presumed—" Mary moved on. "I hadn't particularly wanted a child before then, except in the normal course of things, but after I thought I'd lost you and there was nothing to show for our marriage except a few scant memories, I suddenly wanted something tangible to remember you by, to honour you with, so terribly much. I didn't want you to be gone forever with no mark left on the world. It didn't seem right. If anyone deserves to be a father, it's you."

Matthew frowned and looked away with a shake of his head. "How can you say that after I so quickly abandoned you, Mary? I've barely been a husband."

She took his face in her hands, turning him back to her. "You can't possibly believe that," she said, angry.

"I'm not proud of myself for how determined I was to go," he replied. "You deserved better."

"You are the best man I know."

He blinked and frowned in disbelief.

"All right," she conceded, arching an eyebrow at him. "You can be a bit of a prig, and sometimes completely self-absorbed, and you have a rather overdeveloped sense of honour—" He chuckled. "—but in essentials, you're unlike any other man I've ever met and I love you for it. I wanted to give you a child; I wanted to hold your child and tell him about you."

"Or her."

"Or her," Mary agreed. "But after, when there was still no…result, I finally took your mother's advice and went to see someone."

Matthew frowned. "My mother was at you about it? I asked her not to—"

"No," Mary corrected. "I asked her for help. Mama, too. They were a great comfort."

"I'm glad. So what did this doctor say?"

"Dr Ryder—" Mary began, and she nodded when Matthew's eyebrows rose, "—found that there  _was_  something wrong. With…ah, scarring…on—oh, I can't talk about this sort of thing, even to you." She sighed, fidgeting, and sat up.

"You sound like Robert." Matthew gave her a look of fond reproach.

"Well, I  _am_  his daughter." She smiled and he returned it, rubbing her thighs fondly.

"So…scarring?" he repeated, suddenly uncomfortable, and he glanced down to where they remained connected. "Did I hurt you? Is it likely to recur?"

"No! No, it wasn't you," she replied. "It was—" she paused, laughed. "The specialist, he asked if you'd been unfaithful."

"What?" Matthew pushed himself up on his elbows. "Never!"

Mary smiled, pressing her palms down on his shoulders. "I  _know_  that, Matthew. That's what I told him. He was sceptical of my response, what with you being a soldier."

Matthew made a derisive noise as he settled back down and he muttered, "Paris." He looked up at her quickly. "I never did what many men did while on leave there."

"I know," she said softly. "Thank you."

"Of course," he answered, frowning, "I shan't lie and say there wasn't some appeal to it, but the thought of actually going through with it and then seeing you again made my stomach turn."

"My man of honour," she murmured, bending down to kiss him.

He responded in kind and then muttered as she pulled away, "The thought of bringing something home to you…" His face twisted in disgust.

She sighed. "So then he asked if  _I'd_  been with someone else."

Matthew's eyes shot to hers. "Why would he assume that?"

Mary didn't answer; she just looked away and continued on in a muted voice. "I had to tell him yes."

He froze and stared at her for a long moment, searching her face for something, and then he deflated and pain came into his eyes. "Pamuk," he breathed. "That bastard hurt you so badly that he left  _scars?_ "

Mary was trembling. "Not…not in that way. The doctor said…an infection. It's a common cause of the scarring I had." She put out her hand in apology and it shook slightly. "He asked me if you had exhibited any of the symptoms of…something unpleasant, but I didn't think you had. Unless it was while we were apart."

"No," Matthew shook his head. "I've been fine." His laugh was thin. "Well, fine in  _that_  sense." Mary smiled wanly and paused a moment to allow her trembling to recede. He held out his arms, inviting her into them, and when she acquiesced, he pulled her back down to cradle her against his chest. "So…an operation?" he prompted.

"Yes. Very minor. He sent me home with instructions for Dr Clarkson to monitor my progress. Clarkson has declared me to be in perfect health and he predicted that I'd be with child within six months of us resuming…this." Mary paused and tilted her head, then said, "Although, given how badly he missed the mark with your diagnosis, I'm not sure how much I trust his judgement now."

Matthew laughed, then frowned. "Clarkson predicted a child? Was this before my injury?"

"Yes," she admitted. "It was two days before they brought you home."

"You found this out two  _days_  before I came home? Why didn't you tell me then?"

Mary pulled up with a shrug, looking away. "You were unconscious. And then…well, there didn't seem to be much point. I thought it would just inflict needless pain."

Matthew frowned as he contemplated her for a long moment. He ran his fingers through the hair at her temple. "My storm-braver," he murmured. "You've been carrying this burden alone the entire time?"

"No," she replied. "You have been, too. I've seen the way you watch Edward and Harry."

Matthew sighed, closing his eyes. "Not like this." He opened his eyes again. "I appreciate that you did it to spare me, but please, my darling…even if you think it will hurt initially, share your pain with me. Let me carry it  _with_  you. It'll be easier for us both."

Mary frowned as she settled down into his embrace again, remembering the first time he had asked to share her burden. Why was he so desirous of taking on her pain as well as his own? Then she thought that perhaps it was because her pain already  _was_  his, in one form or another. His pain was certainly hers. Knowing one another and not being alone in the dark did help, even if only a little, and even if it took a while to find a measure of relief. She held him more tightly and he returned her embrace.

"To think," he murmured, relaxing his arms. "We might just have made a baby. What a night this would be!"

She laughed and pressed her face into his shoulder as hot tears spilled out. Her shoulders shook in a kind of hysterical relief and she laugh-sobbed a few times before regaining her composure. He rubbed her back and just held her until she quieted again and began wiping at her eyes.

"I know it isn't terribly romantic of me," Matthew said after a few seconds, pulling out of her with the smallest of tugs, "but I need to use the bathroom now."

Mary chuckled. "Me, too. But no walking. You're using your chair."

"Of course."

"What, no protest?"

"None whatsoever," he replied, hauling himself up into a sitting position as she climbed off him and threw back the covers, shivering. He grinned. "God, it feels good to be a man again!"

"Oh, Matthew...!" Mary gave a happy sigh as she went round the bed and collected his wheelchair.

A few minutes later, when they'd dressed and settled back under the covers in their usual places, Mary stretched up and put out the bedside lamp, then huddled under the blankets, still shivering. Matthew reached for her and she came willingly.

"Mmm," she answered, as he rolled her towards him for a kiss.

They lay together in the warmth and darkness and silence for a long moment, and then he said, "I love you, Mary, so terribly much." His arm briefly tightened around her and she smiled and returned the embrace.

"I know. I love you, too. Happy Christmas, darling."

He chuckled. "Happy Christmas."

And they fell asleep, feeling properly married again.


	29. PART III: AMBITION - Chapter 29

* * *

PART III: AMBITION

* * *

_29_

**February 1919**

"This is the second month, isn't it, my lady?" Anna asked, pausing beside the small shelf in the bathroom where Mary kept her box of necessaries.

"Oh...yes." Mary blinked as she regarded herself in the mirror. The changes were subtle, but noticeable to her. She  _felt_  different, although she appeared the same as ever. She dropped her hand from her abdomen and smoothed her skirt as she looked towards Anna.

There was a smile dancing in Anna's eyes when she emerged from the bathroom with the small stack of unused replacement cloths.

"How are you feeling, my lady?" she asked. Her brow furrowed slightly as she moved past, and she set down the supplies in her small basket.

"I am well," Mary answered, giving herself one last glance in the mirror before she turned away.

Anna shot her a significant look and began straightening the bedclothes. "Will you see Dr Clarkson?"

"Not yet. I want to wait one more month to be sure. I don't want word to get back to Mr Crawley yet."

Anna nodded.

Mary straightened, smiling widely now. "There's only one more week of the banns, isn't there?"

Anna blushed and grinned. "Yes, but it's all really not necessary, my lady. Mr Bates and I prefer not to make a fuss."

"Don't deny us our opportunity to share your joy," Mary replied. "With your wedding, it feels even more as though the war is truly over, and we all want to mark the occasion properly."

Anna smiled as she finished making the bed. Gathering up the discarded clothing, she crossed the room and paused beside the door. "Will that be all, my lady?"

"Yes, thank you, Anna," Mary answered softly.

She sat down at her vanity as Anna left, closing the door quietly behind her. With a smile, Mary selected a simple necklace and earrings for the day, all the while thinking of how much fun it was going to be to show Anna her wedding gift. Mary secured the clasp of the necklace and straightened the pendant, then gave a nod and rose eagerly from her seat.

The gift would require both her mother's and Mrs Hughes's help, and Mary couldn't wait to get started.

* * *

Anna found John downstairs in the servants' hall, frowning at a letter. She glanced at her own post slot but there were no notes for her, so she drew up beside him.

"Is something wrong?" she asked in a low tone.

He looked up, a brief smile appearing when he saw her. "I don't know." He made a curt gesture with the letter, then turned and paused as Mrs Hughes approached.

"Mr Bates," the housekeeper said, a concerned frown on her face as her eyes flickered over the letter in his hands. "His Lordship has requested your presence in the library."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

Mrs Hughes nodded and continued on down the hall. When there was no one within earshot again, John bent slightly towards Anna. "It's just a nasty note from  _her_."

"Vera?"

He nodded, his expression sullen.

"She can't do anything now," Anna said firmly, putting a hand on his arm. "The divorce became final last week, and there's the end of it. Put her out of your mind."

John looked away, shaking his head. "She can't stop us, no, but she can make things difficult for us."

Anna frowned. "Difficult how?"

He started to speak, but paused and looked past her. She turned to see O'Brien lurking in the shadows near the bottom of the stairs. The lady's maid suddenly gathered her skirts and ascended the steps, affecting an air of disinterest.

Anna twisted back towards John, rolling her eyes, but he didn't share her smile. Instead, he showed her the letter. Anna's eyes narrowed as she read the words.

_You think you've won, John, but I'll have the last laugh. I'll make you and your precious employers and your little blonde bitch pay._

Anna looked up with a disbelieving laugh. "That's it?"

But John frowned as he folded the letter and tucked it inside his suit coat. "You don't know her. Don't underestimate how vicious she can be."

Anna straightened and fixed him in a defiant look. "I love you and we're going to marry in three weeks. We're among friends and the divorce cannot be rescinded. Don't underestimate how determined _I_  can be."

He chuckled at that, his eyes finally warming as he took her in. "How could I possibly forget that, Miss Smith?"

"I'll not answer to that for much longer," she murmured, and his smile widened, "so you might as well make the most of it."

"I plan to." He grinned.

She relaxed, then reluctantly tilted her head in the direction of the laundry rooms. "I have to..." She gestured with the armful of Lady Mary's clothing.

John nodded and glanced towards the ceiling, dreading the coming conversation with Lord Grantham. It was unusual to be summoned to the library at this time of the morning, but as the post had just been delivered, he suspected he knew what the earl wished to discuss.

"And I need to go up." He softened his expression and let his fingers brush Anna's sleeve. "Thank you."

With a glowing smile and a nod, she turned away. John frowned as he watched her go. It was not only the two of them that he worried about; others could be hurt as well. With a heavy sigh, he took up his stick and began ascending the stairs.

* * *

"I think it's a brilliant idea," Matthew said. "You  _should_  get the credit for it."

Jarvis's smile came off more as a wince. "But it's purely theoretical, you understand. A mental exercise."

"Precisely!" Matthew exclaimed. "That's why you're so good at this: you can see the possibilities that I can't."

He unfurled a scroll depicting a different portion of the estate, and laid it out on the dining room table, lining up the edges with the piecemeal map that was already spread out before them. Carefully moving a candelabra from the centre of the table to act as a paperweight on one corner, he smoothed down the scroll until the whole new sheet was flattened out, then adjusted the other paperweights. Taking his stick from where it leaned against the table, he stood back with a grin.

Jarvis crossed his arms and looked down at the new landscape, a thoughtful frown on his face. "I suppose, if young Mr Willis and Mr Melville—" He squinted and gestured before crossing his arms again. "—and Mrs Drake—were willing to take up animal husbandry instead...they have the capacity. Those barns used to house more animals, before they started using the tractors..." Jarvis tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Right, and then we could farm the combined tract and adjust the crops as needed to make the best use of the soil in that whole area, ensuring that the fallow years aren't skipped. No one would have to be put out."

There was a knock on the door and Carson stepped into the room. He took in the disarray on the dining room table with narrowed eyes before looking up at Matthew. "Will you require this room for much longer, Mr Crawley?"

Jarvis dropped his arms and stood back with a frown, glancing at Matthew.

"I'll be sure to clear everything away well before luncheon, Carson," Matthew replied, smiling. "Is Lord Grantham about?"

"His Lordship said that he'll be by in a moment, sir. He's just...attending to some business." Carson gave Matthew and Jarvis a nod and stepped back out.

Jarvis turned back to the table. "Sheep would require much of that land for grazing, though," he said, putting a hand on his hip and gesturing at the maps. "How would it be an improvement in the yield?"

"Sir Anthony said he's been experimenting with pigs," Matthew replied. "They don't require as much land. In addition to the value their meat could fetch, their manure has the greatest value per thousand pounds of the animal per year, and their diet is somewhat more flexible than most other animals."

Jarvis glanced up, his eyebrows raised. "The Strallan estate, you say? For how long?"

"The past couple of years, at least. And they've been turning a profit almost since he began."

Jarvis frowned and looked away.

Matthew pressed his lips together, his smile fading, and he looked back down at the makeshift map spread across the table. He'd mentioned the dreaded word,  _profit_. He suppressed a sigh. Turning away, he slowly walked along the length of the table, then pulled out a chair, propped his stick against the table, and sat down to jot some notes in his portfolio. He and Jarvis were nearly done with putting the finishing touches on a first-draft proposal for Robert to look over. There was a great deal left to do, but it seemed to Matthew that at least an outline, the general shape, of a possible restructuring of the Grantham Estate, was nearly complete. There were some troublesome details, of course—

Robert entered the dining room and Matthew looked up, noticing the displeasure on the earl's face. Grimacing, Matthew quickly finished writing and pushed himself to his feet.

"Lord Grantham," Jarvis said, dropping his arms and stepping back from the table.

"Jarvis," Robert nodded. "Good morning." He frowned down at the table. "What's this?"

"Jarvis suggested combining the Harrow Farm and Windmill Farm tracts, at least in this area," Matthew replied, waving his hand over a portion of the map as he approached the end of the table.

"It's nothing, my lord," Jarvis protested, giving Robert a tight smile.

"It's brilliant," Matthew replied, shooting Jarvis a look. Matthew turned to Robert. "And it's only one of many excellent ideas that he's put forward. I wouldn't have much of use in this proposal if it weren't for all his help."

"Yes," Robert murmured, but he wasn't looking at the map. He was frowning into the middle distance. Matthew paused, exchanging a glance with Jarvis.

Robert recalled himself, gave the map a passing glance, and looked at Jarvis. "You think we should combine the farms? But what of the families? Lady Grantham said that Mr Willis is not well. I'm not sure the family would be up for a major move right now."

"Of course not, my lord," Jarvis replied quickly. "There's no reason to combine the farms. It was merely idle speculation."

"There's no need to combine them  _immediately_ , of course, but once the situation changes, it should be a step to consider," Matthew said. "It makes sense."

Robert turned to Matthew. "It makes  _sense?_ "

Matthew drew himself up. "Given the land, the potential yield, the current underutilization of the assets..." Both Robert and Jarvis stiffened, so Matthew tilted his head and shrugged. "Not only the estate, but also the tenants, could benefit from a change to the status quo."

Robert frowned. "What are you proposing?"

It was now or never. "Unilateral changes won't be palatable, of course, even if they are necessary," Matthew answered, speaking quickly and trying to recall Branson's exact words. "But if you convene a meeting of the tenants' association, explain the unsustainable nature of the current situation, and solicit their input—"

Robert put up a hand and looked at Jarvis with a frown. "Are you in favour of this course?"

Jarvis's eyes widened. "This is the first I've heard of it, my lord. No." He looked at Matthew with narrowed eyes. "Such a meeting would only stir up a cloud of fear and uncertainty amongst the tenants."

"There already  _is_  a cloud of fear and uncertainty amongst the tenants," Matthew protested, stepping forward and glowering at Jarvis. But of course the property manager was Robert's man, as he should be. It irritated Matthew that there was no one willing—or able—to stand up to the earl. "Giving them a voice in this process is the best way to ensure that no one is overlooked." But Robert and Jarvis only regarded him in stony silence. "Look," Matthew finally said, gesturing at the maps laid out on the table. "No one benefits when a place is not able to sustain itself. Things cannot go on in this fashion."

Jarvis and Robert both stood glaring at Matthew. Then the two older men exchanged a glance and Jarvis lifted his chin.

"I need to begin my rounds," the property manager said. He nodded to Robert and Matthew. "Your Lordship. Mr Crawley."

Matthew's nostrils flared, but he remained silent as he watched Jarvis stride angrily from the room. The door closed behind him.

Robert put up a hand. "Matthew—"

"It might seem as though everything is proceeding as usual, but the estate doesn't have the resources to continue in this fashion for more than, at best, another fifteen years," Matthew said, fixing Robert in a firm gaze. "Murray is right. Prioritizing the care of those who depend upon our family is admirable, but if the estate falls, they will fall with it. Better to find a way to maintain this place  _and_  care for as many as possible."

"But not all," Robert answered quietly.

Matthew looked away with a frown.

"I cannot accept that," Robert replied. "They are my responsibility. I will not let anyone fall behind."

Matthew set his jaw, knowing the end when he saw it.

"I have made other arrangements," Robert continued, "that will provide for the estate for at least the next forty years, if all goes well."

Matthew looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Your investments."

"Yes," Robert answered, drawing himself up and tugging at his waistcoat. "This is no longer your concern. Thank you for your efforts, Matthew."

Matthew drew himself up as well and nodded slowly. "Do you still want me to send the proposal outline to Murray?"

Robert glanced across the table. "There's no harm in it and it will reassure him to know that there are contingency plans available." He looked back at Matthew. "Just be sure to tell him that I am not endorsing nor acting upon the plans at this time." His expression softened. "I don't want you to feel you've been used, Matthew. I do appreciate all the effort you've put in. After a rocky beginning with Jarvis, you've forged a good working relationship with him. You've gotten more inventiveness from the man in two months than I've seen in forty years."

Matthew looked away, nodding again. He'd known this day was coming. There was no other way for his involvement in this project to end. Robert would not change his ways based solely on a theory, and Matthew prayed that nothing more serious occurred to force Robert's hand. Robert was right: if all went well with his investments, then the estate's future would be secure. The unspoken truth, however, was that if the investments did not perform as he hoped, and no effort had been made to improve the profitability of the place, Robert would be left with a failing estate and no recourse. The family would have no choice but to sell up, possibly even within the decade. The economy was growing more uncertain and the current trends in the Labour government were not reassuring. There was risk in every possible course of action.

Matthew's heart squeezed. It was odd how much the prospect of losing Downton now hurt him. Despite his initial desire to be rid of the situation, the place had somehow grown on him. He felt a responsibility for its maintenance, but of course he had none, as he was no longer the heir. He touched the edge of the nearest map and swallowed.

"I'll tidy up and prepare a packet for Murray," he said. "Do you wish to review it before I send it to him?"

"No, I trust you'll have it all in order," Robert answered, moving towards the door. He paused, his hand on the knob, and looked back. "You haven't failed. We're just not ready for such sweeping changes, Matthew."

"You may have to be," Matthew answered quietly. "For Edward's sake, if nothing else."

Robert frowned, looking as though he were about to say more, but instead he turned and made to leave. Matthew glanced back down at the now-useless map, his jaw working.

Robert started to open the door but after a moment, he let it swing closed and cleared his throat. "There's something else you should know," he said.

Surprised, Matthew turned away from the table. "What is it?"

Robert sighed. "I've had a letter from the former Mrs Bates." When Matthew's eyes widened, Robert nodded. "She's renewed her threat to sell the story about Mary and Kemal Pamuk to the papers, unless I sack Bates and Anna. It's a ridiculous demand that I have no intention of answering."

Matthew frowned. "Surely no one would want to buy an old story."

"Sordid stories are always sensational," Robert replied heavily. "And she claims that Sir Richard Carlisle has indicated interest."

Matthew drew his mouth up in disgust. "The newspaper tycoon? Why should he care?"

Robert looked away in annoyance. "He has an unfortunate predilection for hawking scandals. He takes an interest in the aristocracy and has been an associate of Rosamund's of late."

"I'm surprised that she hasn't prevailed on him to stop the story."

"I doubt she's even aware of his interest," Robert replied. "But even if she were, he's not the sort to let scruples stand in the way of making a profit." Robert's gaze was piercing and Matthew set his jaw. What he was advocating for the estate bore  _no_  resemblance to the newspaperman's sordid practices, but there was no point in arguing.

Robert put his hand back on the doorknob. "Since Bates and Anna still plan to wed, Mary should be warned."

Matthew nodded. "I'll tell her."

"It's unfortunate, of course," Robert said quietly. "But the story can't harm her now." He smiled. "Not with you as her husband."

Matthew gave a dry chuckle. "Yes, she's made it quite clear that marrying me has done her far more damage than the story ever could."

"No, that's not what I meant," Robert replied, his expression warm now, and Matthew met his eyes. The two men exchanged a quiet smile. Then Robert nodded and went out.

Matthew turned back to the table. After regarding the makeshift map a moment, he sighed and began gathering up the papers.

* * *

Matthew emerged from the dining room with the satchel of scrolls slung over his shoulder and the portfolio tucked under his arm. He paused outside, leaning on his stick, and waited for Carson—who was just then crossing the great hall—to reach him.

"I've cleared the table, Carson," Matthew said. "Thank you for your patience. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you too badly."

"Nothing of the sort," the butler replied. "How may I be of help?" He glanced at the scrolls.

"Do you know where Lady Mary is?"

"She and Her Ladyship have gone to Ripon for the day," Carson answered. "They mentioned needing to do some shopping." The butler leaned in slightly, glancing from side to side. "I believe it has something to do with the upcoming nuptials, sir."

Matthew smiled as the older man settled back on his heels. "Thank you, Carson. I'll be working in the library if anyone needs me."

"Very good, sir," Carson replied, nodding as Matthew headed off.

* * *

"Don't worry, my lady. We won't be intimidated," Anna said. She frowned with concentration as she carefully pushed a pin up into Mary's hair.

"I know you won't," Mary replied with a small smile, inspecting the contents of her jewellery box.

Anna reached down beside Mary for another pin. The door to Matthew's dressing room clicked open and Anna and Mary glanced briefly at him as he entered. He gave them a quick smile and moved his stick to his other hand as he pulled the door closed behind him.

"I'm just sorry that you'll bear the brunt of this if she goes through with it," Anna continued. She finished pushing the pin into Mary's upswept hair and stood back to inspect the result.

"Oh—!" Matthew exclaimed, drawing up abruptly to avoid walking into her. Anna sidestepped and put out a hand to steady him.

"I'm so sorry, sir!" she said quickly, wide-eyed, taking her hand away.

He shook his head and smiled down at her, firm on his feet again. "No, I'm the one who stepped too closely. Thank you." When Anna turned away, however, his smile quickly fell and he flexed his jaw.

Mary watched him with worried eyes as he carefully crossed behind Anna to take a seat in the armchair beside the window. He laid his stick against the armrest. His expression softened when he noticed her watching him.

"I'm fine," he said, crossing his legs and lifting a hand. "Really. Don't mind me."

Relaxing, Mary looked back at the mirror and turned her head from side to side, pleased with the graceful, dark curves of her coiffure and the way her tiara sat at a delicate angle. Anna really was a master at this.

"Don't let my reputation worry you, Anna," Mary said, returning to their earlier conversation with a dismissive flick of her hand. "A month of scandal is a small price to pay for a lifetime of happiness."

She met Anna's eyes in the mirror and smiled, and the maid lifted her chin, swallowing as her eyes became suddenly bright.

"It's a privilege to serve you, my lady. And you as well, sir." Anna beamed at them.

Matthew smiled and inclined his head. "Know that His Lordship and the entire household will stand behind you both."

Anna bobbed slightly. "Is there anything else, my lady?"

"No, Anna, thank you." Mary turned on her seat. "Have a good evening."

With a smile, Anna took her leave.

Mary turned back to her vanity, giving Matthew an appreciative glance. Now that he was out of his wheelchair, he was back in white tie and tails for dinner, and it did suit him so. And she had to admit that his walking stick gave him a certain dignified air. She smiled to herself and returned to selecting her jewellery.

"I see you've heard the news," Matthew observed. "I must say, you're taking it rather well."

"You forget that I've heard it before, and nothing came of it then," Mary replied, holding an earring up beside her cheek.

"But something might come of it now."

Mary frowned at her reflection and set the earring down. "I know. I've made my share of enemies. My old victories seem so petty now, but there are those who would still delight in my downfall."

"Then you must live in such a way that if anyone says anything unkind about you, no one will believe it. Just be as nice as you are."

She arched an eyebrow. "You think me nice, but nobody else does. What makes you so sure I am?"

Matthew grinned. "Because I've seen you naked and held you in my arms, and I know the real you."

Mary's neck and cheeks warmed as she looked away from him, and she focused on fastening her earrings. "Goodness, what a testimonial."

He chuckled and held out his hand. "Come and kiss me."

She took a few moments to put on her necklace, then rose deliberately from her seat. He uncrossed his legs as he watched her approach and he grinned, sliding his arms around her as she settled down on his lap. Cradling his head in her hands, she bent to kiss him. He cupped her bottom with one hand and with the other, ran his fingers along the inside of her thigh, as much as her evening gown would allow. She squirmed slightly and hummed against his lips and he smiled into the kiss.

It was such a shame that there were only a few minutes left before dinner, but it could not be helped. She drew back, her fingers drifting down his shirtfront.

"How was your day?" she asked.

He sighed. "Robert has put an end to my involvement with the estate."

Mary regarded him. "You knew this day was coming."

"Yes, but..." Matthew lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, then let it fall back to rest against her waist. "I'd hoped I would have more time, to flesh things out a bit. He's not doing anyone any favours by refusing to consider changing the way things are done. There are tenants who have been unable to farm their land properly for decades. Take Coulter, for instance. He struggles to pay the rent, which is too low anyway. There's been no investment."

"Papa would say that you can't abandon people just because they grow old."

"I agree," Matthew answered, lifting a hand and dropping it in frustration. "But it would be cheaper to give Coulter a free cottage and work his land as it should be worked."

Mary's mouth was set in a flat line. "I see. And you don't think Papa understands that?"

Matthew shrugged, glancing away with a shake of his head. "Maybe he harks back to a time when money was abundant and there wasn't much need to keep on top of it. I think he equates being business-like with being mean, or worse, middle class... Like me."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying? That money is no longer...abundant?"

Matthew's eyes shot to hers, and he quickly smiled and put a comforting hand on her leg. "No, that's not what I'm saying." Then he winced slightly and angled his head. "Not yet, at least." At her worried look, he caressed her thigh with his thumb and smiled. "Let us hope there is no cause for concern for some time yet."

Mary regarded him for a long moment, then looked away, her brow furrowed. Matthew tried to draw her attention back to him by renewing his embrace. She took in a deep breath and, shifting on his lap, finally acquiesced and smiled down at him, but it did not reach her eyes.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"I finished the packet for Murray this afternoon and left a copy of the proposal on Robert's desk. I'll start making inquiries with my old firm in Manchester tomorrow morning."

Mary rose, crossing to her vanity and closing the jewellery case.

Matthew took his stick and pushed himself to his feet behind her, frowning. "You're disappointed."

Mary turned, folding her hands together. "I don't like leaving things in such a state of uncertainty."

Matthew looked more closely at her, his frown deepening. "Is that all?"

Mary pressed her lips together. "I'm just not terribly excited about moving to Manchester."

"It's not so bad. I survived it," Matthew said with a smirk.

Mary gave him a look. "That is not what I mean and you know it."

"We cannot continue living here indefinitely," Matthew replied, sobering. "I shall not trespass further on your father's goodwill." His expression softened. "And I want to finally make time for us to get to know each other, to learn about who we both are without everybody being there."

"It is quite a big house."

"It's a lovely house. It's your home, but it's not mine." He stepped closer to her and touched her cheek. "I want to make a place for  _my_  family."

She smiled and looked down with a nod. "I know." Raising her eyes to his, she kissed him gently. "Come, we don't want to make everyone wait for us."

He drew back, tugging at his clothes to straighten them. "I meant to ask: how was your day in Ripon?"

Mary smiled as they moved towards the door. "Excellent. Mama and I have gotten all the supplies we'll need. I expect we'll have it all in order well before the wedding day."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, holding the door open for her. "I'm sure it will be beautiful."

* * *

Still turning over how she might convince Matthew to remain at Downton for a little while longer, Mary took her seat beside him in the sitting room and accepted a before-dinner drink from Carson. She took a sip and glanced at Sybil, who was staring down at the floor, looking bored and unhappy. Mary frowned.

"With the soldiers gone and the house back to rights again," Cora was saying to Violet, "I'm finally beginning to feel as though I'm free to move forward. There are so many new fashions I'd like to try!"

"I know," Robert said with a chuckle, standing behind his wife's chair. He gestured at his white-tie formal evening wear. "I nearly came down in a dinner jacket tonight."

Violet huffed a soft laugh, giving him an unimpressed glance. "Really? Well, why not a dressing gown? Or better still, pyjamas?"

Robert gave his mother a level look. " _That's_  why I didn't."

"I like the new fashions," Isobel said, sitting forward with a smile. "Shorter skirts, looser cuts. The old clothes were all very well if one spent the day on a chaise longue, but if one wants to get anything done, the new clothes are much better."

Violet looked away. "I'll stick to the chaise longue."

Sybil looked up at this with a frown. "But Granny, you don't really want things to go back to the way they were, surely?"

"Of course I do, and as quickly as possible," Violet answered. Carson came around beside her and she took a small glass of sherry from the tray he held out.

"What about you, Papa?" Sybil asked, looking up at him.

Robert frowned. "Before the war, I believed my life had value. I suppose I should like to feel that again."

Everyone turned their heads to look up at him. Cora twisted slightly in surprise, giving him a glance of disbelief. When he noticed her disapproval, he looked away and took a drink from his tumbler.

"Have you seen the boy's haircuts the women are wearing in Paris?" Mary asked, quickly jumping in.

"I hope you won't try that," Matthew said with a smile.

Mary smirked and met his gaze without wavering. "I might."

"Shorter hair  _would_  be easier, in many respects," Isobel mused.

"So would going about in the altogether, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea," Violet replied, pursing her lips.

Carson smiled as he bent down to give Isobel the other glass of sherry from the tray.

"Carson," Cora said suddenly, looking up at the butler. "I keep forgetting to tell Mrs Hughes we've had a letter from Major Bryant's mother. She and her husband are in Yorkshire on Friday and she wants to pay us a visit."

"Why?" Robert asked.

Cora shook her head. "The last time they saw him alive, it was here. I can understand."

Carson frowned. "Will they be staying, my lady?"

"No, but we'll give them luncheon," Cora replied. She turned to look at Sybil. "That way, they can talk about the Major with all of us who knew him." But Sybil didn't respond; she only continued staring into the middle distance with a slight frown.

Violet lifted her glass to her lips, muttering, "That lets me out, thank heaven."

* * *

Tom reached back for the crank, then leaned forward again, frowning as he worked his arm down into the motor to re-tighten a bolt. He had to pause and check the location of the screw-hole with his fingertips, as the lantern he'd hung from the hood wasn't casting its pool of light far enough down to see what he was doing. He found the hole, fit the nut over the end of the bolt, and twisted it carefully back into place.

He heard footsteps approaching and looked up, smiling when he saw Sybil appear in the darkened doorway. Straightening up, he stood back to take her in. She wore a long, elegant evening gown and matching gloves, every inch the picture of a Lady. Her pale, smooth neck met an upsweep of glossy dark hair, which framed a friendly face with bright eyes and a full mouth and God, he wanted to run his lips along the soft skin of her neck and feel her melt against him...

She stepped further into the garage and smiled, looking down a little when she noticed his frank appreciation. He thought he saw pink rise in her cheeks and he grinned.

Setting down the crank, he picked up a rag and wiped his hands with it, gesturing at her dress as he stepped out from behind the car.

"You look very fine," he said, as he left the rag atop his unrolled toolbag.

Sybil gave an amused shake of her head. "Everything I own is from my Season before the war." She ran one hand up her forearm, smoothing the glove to her elbow, and it struck him that she was nervous. His heart squeezed. What was she about to say? She spread her arms slightly and dropped them to her sides again. "I'm trying to wear them out."

He glanced down the length of her gown, but it didn't appear worn out in the slightest, of course. It was lovely and fit her quite well. He lifted his eyes to hers and saw that she had a small smile on her face.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked.

Tom grinned.  _She's been thinking about me all day!_  "Ripon, until the afternoon." He gestured at the car and shrugged. "And I've just been busy."

"Oh...right," Sybil said, touching her lips and smiling. She dropped her hand and looked at him, her smile falling away as she took a step closer and gave a small shake of her head. "I envy you. I feel so flat after the rush and bustle of the last two years."

Tom shifted his stance as she neared, and she seemed to unconsciously shift with him, still maintaining the space between them as she matched his movements.

She shook her head again. "They were sighing for the old days at dinner, but all I could do was think about how much more I want from life now than I did then."

Tom's heart leapt. "Does this mean that you've made up your mind, at last?"

Sybil's expression stilled for a heartbeat, and then she spoke in a near-whisper. "No, not quite. But almost."

Tom looked down and to the side, his smile a sad thing, but she suddenly cupped his face, drawing him to look back up at her. He inhaled sharply at her touch and stared, frozen in place as she stroked his cheek gently with her thumb. Her lips had fallen open and she looked at his mouth. He didn't know whether to lean closer. He searched her features.  _Now?_

But then, slowly, she drew her hand away and straightened, swallowing.

His chest was tight; he remembered to breathe, and his exhalation was a little shaky.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Sybil began, and Tom managed a nod. "I'm willing to support you in your work for Irish independence. But..." Her brow furrowed. "...that cause is not my passion." When he frowned, she put up a hand. "I want to work. I can get a job as a nurse, to help us make ends meet, until a child comes." She paused a moment, swallowing as she met his eyes, and they shared a small smile. Then she drew herself up, businesslike again. "But Irish independence..." She frowned. "I think it would be best if I didn't travel with you. Won't I just present more problems? I mean—" She gestured at herself with a self-deprecating laugh. "—I could hardly be  _more_  English."

He chuckled, but his amusement died away at the look in her eyes.

"The moment I open my mouth," she continued, "everyone will know who I am. Won't people consider you a turncoat when they discover you married me?"

"I don't care what they'll think," he said. "I love you. I'll earn their respect with my words and actions."

Sybil gave him a sad smile. "So I  _will_  create trouble for you."

He took a chance and reached for her hand. He only met the fabric of her glove, of course, but he was gratified that she didn't pull away. He ran his thumb over the backs of her fingers.

"They'll accept you when they get to know you," he said. "They'll see you're not in favour of oppression, that you'll fight against it alongside us."

She pressed her fingers against his and nodded. "But I don't want to give up the causes  _I_  believe in. I won't stop fighting for equal access to politics, education, and economic opportunities for women. There are so many social policies that set my teeth on edge..." She frowned into the middle distance for a moment, then met his eyes. "Will you stand with me on those, as well?"

He nodded. "I'll do as best I can."

She smiled sadly and looked down. "We would drive such a wedge between us and my family."

"But it might not be there forever," he answered softly. "We'll earn their respect, too."

With a frown, she drew her hand out of his grasp and turned away. "It's not that easy. Once I do this, there's no going back."

"No," he agreed, stepping closer to her and boldly taking her hand again. She looked up at him. "But...Sybil—" He paused as her eyes widened. He'd never addressed her so informally before. "—I care more for you than I do for any cause." He swallowed. "I'm not set against your family. I won't compromise what I believe in, but I won't purposely alienate you from them, either." He searched her face. "We might not have to choose," he said. "We can both find a way to fight for what we love."

Sybil's lips parted slightly. Her gaze flickered to his mouth and back up, her eyes growing damp, and she blinked. She pressed her lips together, swallowed, and gave him a small smile.

There was a sound outside and she twisted with a gasp, the moment broken.

"I have to go," she said quickly, pulling her hand from his. "Someone will notice I'm missing." She hurried to the door and looked into the darkness, then slipped away without a backwards glance.

Tom pushed his hands into his pockets and dropped his head, his eyes falling closed.

* * *

**One week later**

It was a bright, sunny day, and the table was set for a fine luncheon. Isobel did not usually take lunch at the great house, but Cousin Cora had invited her on behalf of the guests, a Mr and Mrs Bryant, who had lost their son in the war. As Isobel had known Major Bryant better than most of the family while he was convalescing at Downton Abbey, she was seated beside Mrs Bryant. Everyone had made an attempt to recount pleasant memories of the officer, but there weren't many to be had of him—he had been a largely unexceptionable guest—and the few recollections that stood out in Isobel's mind weren't ones she wished to tell his mother. So Isobel ate her meal and smiled as Mrs Bryant did most of the reminiscing, in her quiet, gentle way.

"Yes, I'm afraid Downton will be a place of pilgrimage for a while," Mrs Bryant finished.

"We're glad to be," Cora replied, "if we can help to bring some peace of mind."

Mr Bryant, seated at the opposite corner of the table, between Matthew and Mary, scowled. "There's no point in wallowing in it. What good does it do?"

There was a sudden cry from outside in the great hall and everyone looked up.

"Leave me alone!" It was a young woman's voice, edged with desperation and anger.

"Ethel!" Mrs Hughes shouted.

Isobel frowned and twisted to look behind her at the commotion, just as a pale, thin, ginger-haired girl in faded working-class clothing, still wearing her hat and coat, came rushing into the dining room, clutching a baby boy to her breast. The girl was vaguely familiar to Isobel—

Anna hurried into the room, hot on the girl's heels and out of breath.

"I tried to stop her!" Anna exclaimed. She shot a worried glance back at Mrs Hughes, who also looked out of breath, and very angry.

Robert twisted in his chair, incensed. "What on earth?"

Cora quickly put her serviette on the table and pushed her chair back. "Ethel—" Cora looked at Robert. "I know what this is." Cora stood up. "Mrs Hughes, I don't think it's quite the right—"

"I'm stopping!" Ethel cried. "Until I've had my say."

Cora's expression flattened into disapproval and her eyes darted to Robert, who raised his eyebrows at Ethel and waited.

Ethel looked at Mrs Bryant, who sat right in front of her. "This is Charlie, your grandson."

Mrs Bryant straightened in her chair, her mouth falling open, and Isobel's heart fell as she finally recognised Ethel. Isobel glanced across the table at Mr Bryant, whose mouth was also now open.

"He's almost a year old," Ethel finished, her voice quieting as she held Mrs Bryant's wide-eyed gaze.

Mr Bryant suddenly stood up and threw his serviette on the table, his nostrils flaring. "What proof have you?"

Ethel froze as she stared at him in horror. "What?"

"I say, what proof have you?" Mr Bryant demanded. "If my son was the father of this boy, where is your proof? Have you any letters? Any signed statement?"

"Why would there be any letters?" Ethel answered, the color draining from her face. "We were in the same house."

Mrs Hughes stepped forward. "I think she's telling the truth."

"I'm not interested in 'think'!" Mr Bryant snapped, raising his voice. His whole frame was stiff, anger jerking his every gesture. Matthew and Mary both leaned slightly away from him. "I want proof that my son acknowledged paternity of this boy!" Mrs Bryant, who had been staring at the child until now, finally turned to look at her husband. Her expression pleaded with him, but he set his jaw and looked back at Ethel. He lowered his voice slightly. "If what you say is true, then he would have known of the boy's existence for months before he—" Mr Bryant paused, swallowed, shifted, and closed his eyes. He finished in a lower tone, opening his eyes again, a cold rage now burning in them. "—before he was killed."

Mrs Bryant looked down with a pained twitch, then twisted to look up at Ethel.

"Yes, he knew." Ethel's wide eyes darted from Mr Bryant to his wife and back.

Mr Bryant shifted on his heels, hooking his fingers into the pockets of his waistcoat, a cold triumph on his face. "So? What did he do about it?"

Ethel visibly fought tears. "Nothing." She stroked little Charlie's back with her hand. "He did nothing."

Cora looked down at the table with a frown.

Mr Bryant gave a self-satisfied nod. "Thank you. That's the proof I was looking for." Matthew glared up at him, then looked at Ethel, a frown on his face as Mr Bryant continued. "If Charles was the father, he would never have shirked his responsibilities, never."

Ethel's eyes filled with tears and her voice rose. "Well, he did!"

Mrs Bryant fought her own tears as she looked at Ethel.

Mr Bryant began shouting. "I won't listen to any more slander! Now will you please go, and take that boy with you, whoever he is!"

Robert shifted uncomfortably and Cora looked at Mr Bryant in shocked disgust.

"You're upsetting Mrs Bryant!" Mr Bryant roared.

Ethel looked back at Mrs Hughes in horror, silently begging her for help.

Mrs Bryant put out a hand and spoke in her soft voice. "Well, I  _would_  like—"

Mr Bryant shouted over her. "I say you are upsetting Mrs Bryant!"

Ethel started to sob and Anna watched her with tears brimming in her own eyes.

Isobel gripped the edge of her chair, fighting the urge to leap to Ethel's defense, but she had no proof either, only well-founded suspicions. Isobel looked at Robert expectantly. This was his house, his former housemaid.

Robert's lip curled and he turned from Ethel to look up at the still-standing Mr Bryant.

Mr Bryant glared back, his jaw set and his back stiff. "Lord Grantham, are you going to stand by while this  _woman_  holds us to ransom?"

Robert closed his eyes briefly and straightened, then looked at Ethel with regret as he slowly pushed back his chair and rose. When he spoke, his tone was gentle. "This isn't doing much good," he said to Ethel and Mrs Hughes.

Mrs Hughes reached out and put her hands on the sobbing girl's shoulders. The baby started to shift restlessly. "Ethel, you'd better come with me."

"Come on," Anna agreed softly, helping to usher Ethel and baby Charlie from the room.

Mrs Bryant looked at Mr Bryant, her expression sad and pleading as the boy began to cry, but Mr Bryant only glared after the receding women.

After they'd gone, Robert, Cora, and Mr Bryant slowly took their seats. Mr Bryant frowned into the middle distance, not touching his remaining food. Mary and Matthew exchanged an unhappy glance.

"She thinks we're a soft touch," Mr Bryant bit out. "They hear of a dead officer with some money behind him, and suddenly there's a baby on every corner."

"But if she's telling the truth—" Isobel protested, sitting forward.

Mr Bryant glared at her. "If Charles had fathered that boy, he would have told us. Now I'd say she's done her homework and discovered he was an only child."

At this, Matthew's frown deepened and he met Isobel's eyes before looking away.

Mr Bryant gave a mocking sigh of a laugh. "She thinks we'd be  _ripe_  for the plucking."

On the opposite side of the room, Carson shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at Robert, who raised his eyebrows as he put his serviette back on his lap. The rest of the family made a faint attempt to resume their meal.

After a moment, Mrs Bryant leaned slightly towards Isobel and spoke in a low voice. "You knew her. Was she one of the nurses when he was here?"

Cora spoke quietly, commanding everyone's attention. "She was a housemaid."

Matthew met Mary's eyes; she pressed her lips together with a nod and looked across at Mrs Bryant.

Isobel followed her gaze. "No one told me Major Bryant was your only son."

Mrs Bryant smiled proudly and gave a quick nod. "That's right, just Charles."

Mr Bryant shifted in his seat, his breathing laboured. His face was pale and his fists closed and opened repeatedly. Mrs Bryant, by contrast, was now clear-eyed and calm. Isobel had the distinct sense that this mother was not surprised by such tales of her son's philandering.

Isobel smiled across the table with a nod of her chin. "Matthew is my only son, and he nearly died. I think I know a little of what you're going through."

Matthew looked down at this plate just as Mrs Bryant turned to see who Isobel was indicating.

"He seems such a nice young man," Mrs Bryant answered quietly.

Mr Bryant's words were brusque. "Well, I think that's cast rather a shadow over the proceedings—" He threw his serviette down on the table, shaking the silver as he shoved his chair back. "—so I don't see any point in prolonging it."

Robert rose as well, regarding the other man with a look of saddened displeasure, and Cora stood quickly to follow Mr Bryant as he strode from the room. Mrs Bryant looked at Isobel.

"Daphne, come on, we're leaving," Mr Bryant barked.

Mrs Bryant rose, still looking at Isobel. "He's afraid of his own grief," she said quietly. "That's why he behaves as he does. He's terrified of his own grief."

She looked down to regain her composure, then lifted her chin and walked towards the door that Carson now held open. As Mrs Bryant passed Matthew, he pushed himself to his feet, and the family turned to watch her go.

Isobel frowned, her anger warring with sadness and the urge to  _do something_ , but what?

* * *

Robert and Cora entered the library after seeing the Bryants off. Carson was moving about the room, serving tea.

"He's their only grandchild. There can never be another," Mary said stiffly, aware of how terribly similar her own situation might have become after Kemal Pamuk's death. How would her father have responded if she had carried the Turk's child? Would he have been just as harsh as Mr Bryant when faced with the prospect of a bastard grandchild? Mary frowned as she pushed the awful thought away, and she put her hand protectively over her abdomen.

"It's just so terribly unfortunate," Sybil replied. "What recourse does Ethel have, even if she's telling the truth?"

"I believe she is," Cora put in, sitting down with a glance at Mary. Mary put on a disinterested air and casually removed her hand from her stomach to smooth her skirts. Cora turned her gaze to Isobel. "Mrs Hughes has been aware of the entire situation from the beginning."

"I've long suspected something was amiss with Major Bryant," Isobel agreed. "I'm just saddened that it was allowed to get this far."

"But what can be done?" Mary asked, accepting a teacup and saucer from Carson.

"What about you, Mother?" Matthew asked. "Can't one of your refugee charities help?

"But she's not a refugee, and we have more claims on our funding than we can possibly meet," Isobel replied, shaking her head.

Mary looked aside in frustration as she stirred her teacup. "It's a shame, but the truth is, Ethel's made her choice and society won't forgive her for it." She lifted her eyes to Matthew's and he frowned.

"There must be something that can be done," he said. "This isn't right."

The family drank their tea in an uncomfortable silence.

* * *

**One week later**

"Where's Sybil?" Matthew asked after dinner, as he joined Mary on the sofa in the sitting room. She smiled. He smelled of brandy and cigars. The combination spoke of both his masculinity and the promise of their retiring soon, and she had plans that she was eager to act upon. In particular, she wanted to apologise for putting him off that morning, but she'd been nauseated then—an unpleasant habit she had recently developed, and one she hoped he hadn't noticed yet. Matthew crossed his legs as he spoke. "She seemed...upset about something during dinner."

"She has a headache," Edith answered, looking up at Anthony as he took the armchair beside hers. "She just begged off and went up to her room."

"Oh." Matthew frowned. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"I must say, it's rather nice to be part of a family that notices when someone is out of sorts," Anthony observed. "I'm accustomed to more distant relations."

Edith frowned at him. "What are you talking about?"

He chuckled and put his hand over hers, where it rested on the arm of her chair. "My parents."

Edith smiled and nodded, then turned back to Mary. "So will it be ready in time?"

"I think so. I just finished with it," Mary said conspiratorially, glancing across to where Carson stood near the sideboard, his hands held loosely behind his back. "I plan to show it to them this evening."

"What's this?" Anthony asked.

Mary opened to her mouth to respond, but paused and frowned when she heard the distant ring of the telephone. "Who would be calling at this hour?" she asked.

Conversation around the room quieted as Carson crossed to the door, and they all looked up when he reappeared a few moments later. Robert had gotten to his feet, but Carson looked past him.

"Telephone for you, Mr Crawley," the butler said to Matthew.

Matthew exchanged a surprised glance with Mary and, taking his stick, got to his feet.

Carson stood back to let him pass and Matthew gave him a nod of thanks as he walked to where the telephone stood.

He sat against the table's edge, laying his stick against his leg, and picked up the telephone. "This is Matthew Crawley. To whom am I speaking?"

"Good evening, Mr Crawley. This is George Murray."

Matthew blinked. "Murray? I—I think there's been a mistake. I'll go fetch Lord Grantham."

"No, wait! Mr Crawley, I wish to speak with  _you_."

Matthew frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Oh, goodness—I'm sorry for the late hour. I've been so engrossed, the time has quite gotten away from me. Can you spare a few minutes? We have a great deal to discuss."

* * *

Mary looked up when Matthew returned a short while later, grinning and walking with more spring in his step than she'd seen earlier. She half-smiled, half-frowned up at him as he approached.

"Is everything all right?" she asked in a low tone.

He did not retake his seat, but instead came behind where she sat on the couch, put his hand on her shoulder, and bent down to speak near her ear.

"Very much so," he replied, still smiling. "I have a brief errand to run, but I'll be back before you retire."

She nodded.

Matthew looked up, giving Anthony and Edith a nod. "You must excuse me," he said. "I'll be back to see you off." He straightened, nodded to the rest of the family, and hurried out.

"What was that all about?" Cora asked, from where she sat on the far side of the room beside Violet, Isobel, and Robert.

"I haven't faintest idea," Mary replied with a slight frown.

After a moment, Isobel turned back to Violet. "I just think it's dreadful what's happened to the poor girl. Where will she go? Shouldn't we assume some responsibility for her? It did happen in this household, after all."

"But what can we do?" Cora asked. "She isn't an employee any longer."

As the rest of the family returned to their discussion, Mary smiled to herself. Something had made Matthew happy. What could it be?

* * *

"Carson," Matthew called softly, waving the butler over. The older man neared and bent his head in question. "Where is Branson?"

"Do you want me to have him bring the car around, sir?"

"No, I wish to speak with him."

"Very good, sir. Shall I have him meet you in the small library?" Carson started to turn away.

"No, no..." Matthew glanced around. "I'd rather the conversation not be accidentally overheard. It's a matter of...some delicacy."

Carson frowned, but dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Of course, sir. What would you prefer? I can clear the servants' hall."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to inconvenience everyone. Doesn't Branson have a cottage nearby?"

"The chauffeur's quarters are above the garage, yes."

"Excellent." Matthew gave a nod, started to move off, then paused. "Which door would be best?"

Carson smiled and pointed towards the side-entrance off the guest wing.

"Thank you," Matthew replied. He set off again, taking careful, measured steps, grinning as he strode away.

He did not see Carson frowning behind him.

* * *

Buoyant, Sybil strode down the path to the garage courtyard, smiling when she saw the thin line of light illuminating the bottom edge of the door. Tom was still inside. Perfect. When she stepped up to the garage, she carefully composed her features and reached for the door handle, but then paused. She was wearing her long gloves. That wouldn't do; she wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers this evening. Drawing them off, she took a deep breath.

Tom glanced up when he heard Sybil's familiar footfalls. What new objection would she propose that he answer this evening? He looked back down at the pages before him.

When Sybil pulled the door open, she saw that Tom was leaning against the front of the car, reading a newspaper. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and as she observed him, she fought down a smile. He had the look of a man accustomed to manual labour, and well-suited to it. He really was quite fetching.

Tom took in her appearance with a smile. She wore another formal evening gown, her dark hair put up and fine earrings dangling on either side of her face, matching the sparkle in her blue eyes. Her heels clicked on the cobblestones as she stepped closer and paused in the doorway. He noticed that she was holding her gloves in one hand, which was odd. She didn't usually remove them when she came to see him in the evenings.

"You're very late." He straightened, still grinning as he closed the newspaper and folded it, laying it down behind him. "Won't they worry?"

She entered with a sudden quick step, stopping a few feet in front of him. "They're all so excited about Anna and Bates's wedding tomorrow, they won't care where I am." She moved to stand mere inches from him as she laid her gloves down on the hood of the car.

Tom smiled and nodded, fighting the urge to lean closer. He didn't want her to pull away. "I'm pleased. I like them both."

"Everyone was discussing the arrangements. Somehow, it made me feel more than ever that the war is really over and it's time to move forward."

He stilled, his mouth falling open slightly as he looked at her. He didn't dare hope... "Do you mean you've made your decision?"

She nodded, her expression sober. "Yes. My answer is..." She paused, no sparkle in her eyes now. Tom braced himself, fighting a sudden rush of panic as his heart fell. "...that I'm ready to travel—" Her face broke into a shining grin. "—and you are my ticket to get away from this house, away from this life."

His chest was tight and he drew in a sudden breath, blinking, joy flooding through him as he looked down at her beautiful face. But after more than two years of waiting for the day when he'd be sacked, it seemed far too good to be true.

He swallowed. "Me?"

Sybil settled back on her heels a moment, lowering her voice as her smile disappeared. "No, Uncle Tom Cobley."

Tom froze.  _Who's_ —

Sybil burst out laughing and he expelled a breath of relief and chuckled. Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at her.  _She's saying yes! She's saying yes!_  Something was dancing a mad jig in his chest and he wanted to shout his joy and run around in daft circles. He could have jumped out of his skin, but his legs felt strangely weak.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice trembling slightly. He shook his head, struggling to control himself. "But I've waited so long for those words." He drew in another calming breath. "I can't believe I'm hearing them." Sybil's eyes warmed as she smiled up at him, but he had to be sure. "You won't mind burning your bridges?"

"Mind? Fetch me the matches!"

They laughed together and Tom bent his head towards her, but then checked himself.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice nearly a whisper. "You can kiss me, but that is all until everything is settled."

His throat was thick with emotion, his own response little more than a whisper. "For now, God knows it's enough that I can kiss you."

She chuckled and closed her eyes, moving up to meet him, and he eagerly captured her mouth with his own. She matched his enthusiasm and sought more, and he drew her closer, suddenly afire.

Someone cleared their throat.

Tom and Sybil gasped and broke apart, Sybil spinning to look at the intruder as Tom's heart thudded and dropped. He raised his eyes, sure the worst—

It was Matthew. He had one hand on the door frame, the other on his stick, and there was a dangerous, glittering light in his eyes as he met Tom's gaze. He was not smiling. Tom straightened, swallowing, and set his jaw as he looked back at the other man.

"Matthew—" Sybil began, but she cut herself off when his eyes flickered sharply to hers.

"I think you should go fetch Mary," he said. His voice was firm, but not unkind. He stepped back, moving a little stiffly, and waited for Sybil to hurry out past him. She threw him one frightened glance as she slipped out, but his cold expression did not waver. He waited until her footsteps receded and then he looked at Tom.

"How much did you hear?" Tom asked, his throat tight. He was going to be sacked, he knew it. And Sybil would be closely watched until the family was sure he could never reach her again. He could write—but they would intercept her mail.

He would not cry.

"Enough," Matthew bit out, the dark gleam still in his eyes. "How long has this been going on?"

Tom swallowed. Why did it matter? "Since November 1916. I told her how I felt when I brought her to the nursing college in York."

Matthew nodded, his jaw flexing as he glared at Tom. "And what liberties have you taken with her? Is this to be a forced marriage?"

Tom's nostrils flared and he clenched his fists, taking a step forward. " _None!_  We have not even  _kissed_  until just now!"

Matthew put up a hand and regarded him in silence for a long moment. "I am not set against you, Tom. You're a good man and I know you would treat her well. But Sybil is my sister and I will protect her. I must be sure she is making this choice freely."

Tom pulled up and swallowed, unclenching his fists. "You won't stop us?"

Matthew's expression remained impassive. "What is your plan? I assume you intended to elope."

Tom nodded.

"And after that?"

"I have a little saved. We would live with my family in Dublin." Tom lifted his chin. "I plan to try my hand at journalism."

"Do you have any experience with that?"

Tom gritted his teeth. It was an eminently reasonable question, but he could only shake his head.

Matthew nodded slowly, his gaze still piercing. Then, by inches, he softened.

"I didn't come here this evening to look for Sybil," he finally said.

Tom blinked. "Why did you come?"

Matthew raised his eyebrows, giving Tom a rueful smile. "To make you an offer, but I'm afraid this rather complicates things."

"What offer?" Tom couldn't fathom what interest Matthew had in him.

Matthew nodded towards the low bench that stood against the far wall, littered with the detritus of Tom's current projects. "Do you mind?"

At Tom's shrug, Matthew made his way over to the bench, cleared a space for himself, and sank down with a sigh, resting his stick against his leg.

"I just spoke with Murray," Matthew said. "I sent him the revised management proposals for the estate and he liked what he saw, so he asked me to consider becoming a northern agent for his firm."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you," Matthew replied, smiling a little. "I told him that I hadn't done it alone, however. That in addition to Mr Jarvis, I also received a great deal of help from you."

Tom frowned and crossed his arms. "It was just a few conversations, sir."

"True, but they were conversations that indicate you know far more than you let on—or perhaps realise—and that I would enjoy working with you...a great deal."

Tom blinked. He thought he could see where this was going, but surely there must be a mistake.

"So...you want to  _hire_  me?" he asked, his eyes wide. "To do what? I'm not a lawyer."

"No, you're not," Matthew replied. "But at the moment, apparently, neither am I. Murray wants to take us both on as estate restructuring consultants. He has several clients who are in a similar position, but no one in the firm has expertise in dealing with these matters." Matthew frowned and shifted. "It's a new kind of challenge. Frankly, the wider economic situation is unsettling and it's only going to become worse for the great estates."

Tom took this in with a slow nod and a frown. "And I would...work for you? Give you farming advice?"

"Not quite," Matthew answered. "You'd work for the firm alongside me. We'd be partners. We'd visit an estate, assess its health and the potential profits, and make proposals to the landlord regarding possible schemes for improvements. We'd eventually provide a detailed report on the financial health of the estate that could aid with procuring loans and capital and the like. You know enough about farming to know what we'd need to learn—you could teach me—and I know the ways of business and the law, and can teach you." Matthew raised an eyebrow, a hint of humour now in his eyes. "Besides, I suspect that you'd be much more politically astute and could help me avoid blundering about quite so much."

Tom smirked. "If we're going to be working with English toffs, I might create more problems for you than I solve. You won't make a gentleman of me, you know. You can teach me to fish, to ride, and to shoot, but I'll still be an Irish Mick in my heart."

Matthew laughed. "So I should hope. You'll accept?"

Tom opened his mouth to respond, then frowned, cocking his head. They heard the sound of hurried footsteps and paused, waiting until Sybil and Mary appeared in the doorway. Both women were slightly out of breath.

"Oh, thank God!" Sybil exclaimed. "I was afraid you'd come to blows."

Tom gave her an incredulous look and Matthew chuckled.

"Are you all right?" Mary asked, taking a step towards Matthew.

"Perfectly," he answered.

"Sybil said you wanted her to fetch me?"

Matthew raised his eyebrows at Sybil, who gave him an apologetic shrug. "I didn't want to make a scene," she explained. "It was odd enough as it is."

Matthew nodded. "Wise."

Sybil cleared her throat and stepped between Mary and Tom.

"Tom and I are going to elope," Sybil announced.

Mary gave a short laugh. "You're joking."

Tom bristled, but Sybil put her hand out behind her—without looking at him, Matthew noted with admiration—and stilled him with a touch.

"I am not."

Mary turned, her eyes narrowing at Matthew. "Did you have a part in this?"

Matthew lifted his hands quickly. "I only learned of their plans just now. I...happened upon them."

Mary rounded on Sybil. "Are you in trouble?"

Both Tom and Sybil stiffened. "Of course not!" Sybil answered. "What do you take me for?"

"It's more what I take  _him_  for," Mary replied, glaring at Tom. "What are you  _thinking?_  She'll be the laughingstock of Society, and you cannot  _hope_  to provide for her in the manner to which she's accustomed."

"I might have—" Matthew began.

"I don't  _need_  to be rich," Sybil protested. "I can make do with much less."

"Oh, my dear, you don't know what you're saying," Mary replied, her tone softening. "When have you ever known hardship?"

"I don't live in a box!"

"At least nothing's happened, thank God," Mary muttered.

Sybil glared at her. "What do you mean nothing's happened? I've decided to marry Tom and your interference won't change that."

"Of course Mama and Papa will hate it—"

"Why should they?" Tom demanded.

"Oh, pipe down!" Mary snapped. "Sybil, can't you let them get used to the idea? Take your stand and refuse to budge, but allow them time. That way, you won't have to break up the family."

Sybil shook her head. "They would never give permission."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "You don't need permission. You're twenty-one. But you  _do_  need their forgiveness if you're not to start your new life under a black shadow."

Tom moved to stand partway between Mary and Sybil. "Don't listen," he warned Sybil. "She's pretending to be reasonable to get you away from me, and then she'll have me sacked."

"This is all unnecessary—" Matthew tried again.

Mary shook her head as she looked intently at Sybil. "Even if I am, even if I think this is mad, I know it would be better to do it in broad daylight than to sneak off like a thief in the night."

Tom watched as Sybil looked down with a thoughtful expression, and he searched her face in a rising panic. When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, he let out a resigned breath.

"Don't leave with me, then," he said, fighting the urge to cry. "If you think they can make you happier than I will."

"Am I so weak you believe I can be talked out of giving my heart in five minutes flat?" Sybil looked away. "But Mary's right. I don't like deceit, and our parents don't deserve it. I wasn't ready to leave tonight, in any case. I haven't packed." Tom pressed his lips together, looking past her as he fought tears. "Believe it or not, I will stay true to you."

Mary watched them, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide. Sybil stepped up to Tom's side and kissed his cheek. Then she stepped away from him with obvious reluctance, her eyes and cheeks reddening with her falling tears.

Matthew cleared his throat.

"This is all very touching," he observed calmly, pushing himself to his feet. "But it's entirely unnecessary." Mary shot him a look of annoyance, but he merely stepped up to her side and smiled at Tom. "What do you say to my offer? If you and Sybil were willing to wait a year or two, this might work out without much ado at all."

Tom blinked and looked at Sybil, who frowned in confusion.

"What's this?" Mary asked.

Matthew raised his eyebrows at Tom.

"Do I have to decide tonight?" Tom asked.

"No," Matthew replied. "Murray says he's got a few things to sort out before he can make us a firm offer, so we have some time. Even if we accept his offer now, we probably wouldn't visit our first client until mid-April at the earliest. I'm inclined to do it, but my answer is contingent upon yours. I have no wish to do this work alone."

"Someone had bloody well better tell me what is going on," Sybil said, and glared at Tom. "No one is making any decisions on my behalf."

Mary shifted to stand beside Sybil in solidarity, arching her eyebrow at Matthew.

Matthew chuckled, as he was now left standing closer to Tom than to either Mary or Sybil. He suspected, if this all worked out, that tonight would not be the last time he and Tom found themselves facing dual glares. He glanced at Tom, who almost—but not quite—shared his smile.

"Come, man," Matthew said. "If we're mad enough to take on the Crawley girls, we have to stick together."

At that, Tom closed his eyes and dropped his head with a laugh. He put his hands on his hips and looked up again. "All right. Let me talk with her and think on it."

"We'll wait outside." Matthew nodded, beckoning to Mary with a tilt of his head. She acquiesced, her annoyed expression unchanged as she shot a warning glance back at Sybil. When she stepped out into the cool darkness of the courtyard and Matthew closed the door behind them, she rounded on him.

"What offer?"

He quickly caught her up on the particulars and watched as her face lit up.

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" she exclaimed in an excited undertone. There was an echoing noise of surprise inside the garage and they both smiled towards the closed door. "You have a position!"

"It will mean a lot of travel," he cautioned. "I might be away for a week or two at a time."

"Will we remain at Downton?" she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"It will depend. I've been meaning to speak with you about that."

"Later," Mary agreed. "What does this position mean for Branson? Will he truly be your partner, or were you just being polite?"

"He will. I expect he'll make the same—or a very similar—salary to my own," Matthew replied. "There's a need for men with our skills right now, and his are as valuable as mine in this instance."

Mary paced. "Mama and Papa could grow accustomed to this." She nodded. "It would be strange at first, but if you mentioned him from time to time, and started bringing him to dinner—but for heaven's sake, keep him away from Sybil—and they saw that he could provide for her...it might become just barely acceptable. Eventually." She put her hand to her forehead. "My God, the world really  _is_  changing, isn't it?"

Matthew smiled and leaned towards her, pressing a kiss to her temple. When he straightened, she shook her head, but there was a wry smile on her face.

"She really loves him," Mary whispered, frowning.

"He proposed more than two years ago, and he's waited patiently this whole time. He really loves her, too."

"The chauffeur."

"A good man. And a friend."

Mary turned to look at Matthew, her eyes warming. "You're happy."

"Very," he answered, chuckling softly.

Mary smiled and kissed him, her hands sliding up on to his neck. He held her with only one arm, and she felt him relying on her to steady himself. He still tired easily when he walked, and he couldn't stand for a long time without sitting, but he was growing stronger with each passing day. Combined with her certainty that something wonderful was growing within her, hope filled her heart with gratitude and she smiled into the kiss.

Tom cleared his throat. Mary and Matthew broke apart, Mary quickly composing herself. Tom stood behind Sybil in the open doorway, a look of amusement dancing in his eyes, and Matthew smirked at him.

"Good night," Sybil said, turning to smile up at Tom. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"We all will," Mary declared suddenly. "We're going into Ripon to take lunch and run errands." She looked at Tom. "Bring a suit."

He raised his eyebrows as Sybil grinned and clasped her hands together.

"What if we're discovered?" Matthew asked.

"We won't be," Mary replied. "No one will give him a second look if he's not in uniform. We'll just be two couples out enjoying a day together." She turned a critical gaze on Tom. "If you're to play the part of gentleman, you must begin to learn how."

He lifted his chin and crossed his arms. "I haven't given my answer yet. And I'm not ill-mannered."

She arched an eyebrow. "This is your best chance of winning Sybil's hand without a serious struggle; I doubt you will refuse. If there are four forks laid out beside your plate, which should you use for the first course?"

He frowned.

With a satisfied nod, Mary glanced at Sybil, who was giving her an exasperated look. "Let's go back in. They'll be wondering where we are, and Branson needs to bring the car around for Granny and Cousin Isobel." Mary looked at Tom as she slipped her hand into the crook of Matthew's arm. "Good night, Branson...Tom?"

Tom nodded and smiled. "Good night, my lady."

He pushed his hands into his pockets and watched as the three Crawleys walked up the drive.

Well,  _that_  had gone off a lot better than he'd expected.

* * *

"Will that be all, my lady?" Anna asked, straightening as she gathered up the last of Lady Mary's clothing.

Lady Mary smiled at her reflection as she tied off the end of her braid. She looked up as Mr Matthew entered the bedroom, wearing his pyjamas and bathrobe. He had a book under one arm and he turned to pull his dressing room door closed, then transferred his stick to his other hand.

"Good evening, sir," Anna said, crossing to the bedroom door.

"Good evening, Anna," he answered, smiling. His eyes flickered to his wife's in mute question, and she gave a slight nod and rose, drawing her robes about herself. Mr Matthew turned to Anna. "You'd better wait a moment. You wouldn't want to accidentally run into Bates in the hall."

Anna grinned. "Oh, we don't hold with that superstition, sir. We don't have the luxury of it."

"Still, Anna, perhaps you'd better wait," Lady Mary said, coming towards Anna.

"My lady?" Anna paused, her hand on the doorknob. There was a knock on the door and she gave a small start. She glanced at Lady Mary, who nodded, so Anna slowly opened the door and looked out.

It was Jane, another housemaid and the most recent addition to the household. She was smiling and she held out her hands.

Anna frowned. "What's this?"

"I'm here to see to Lady Mary's clothing," Jane replied.

Anna looked down at her armload. "Why? I was just going to do that."

Mr Molesley appeared in the hall behind Jane, his own arm draped with Mr Matthew's clothing. "Mrs Hughes has asked Jane to take over your duties," Mr Molesley replied. He briefly met Mr Matthew's eyes, a secret smile playing about his lips. "Mr Bates has finished with His Lordship, sir."

"Thank you, Molesley," Mr Matthew answered with a nod.

Jane raised her eyebrows and gestured again, and Anna reluctantly handed over the clothing. She glanced around at the other four.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Please come with me, Anna," Lady Mary replied. Jane, Anna, and Mr Molesley stepped back as Lady Mary swept out of the room.

Anna's eyes widened. She looked at Mr Matthew, half-pleading, but he merely smiled.

"You're not being sacked, Anna," he said gently. "Go ahead."

"Of course she isn't," Lady Mary put in, shooting him a look of disbelief. She turned to Anna and raised her eyebrows, waiting.

"I don't need the evening off, my lady," Anna protested, stepping out of the bedroom. "We finished all the preparations this afternoon."

"I know," Lady Mary said.

Jane gave a quick bob and moved off, Mr Molesley following behind her. Mr Matthew stood smiling in the doorway, and after a final glance back at him, Lady Mary strode away.

Anna hurried to keep up. She frowned as Lady Mary crossed the gallery and ascended the back stairs up to the second floor of the guest wing. "Where are we going, my lady?"

"You'll see," Lady Mary replied. Anna swallowed and fell silent.

Her eyes widened as they rounded a corner at the far end and she saw John standing in the hallway. He turned around with a frown.

"I'm sorry to intrude, my lady," he said quickly, giving an aimless gesture with his stick. "Mr Carson said I was to wait up here, but I think I must have misunderstood."

"No, you didn't," Lady Mary said, smiling widely now. Anna met John's confused gaze as Lady Mary strode past him and opened a door. Still smiling, she gestured inside.

John stepped closer, allowing Anna to peer into the room ahead of him.

The lamps were lit, their yellow light casting a soft glow throughout the space. It was a beautifully-appointed room, with fresh firewood laid in the darkened grate, clean linens stacked atop the dresser, and several unlit candles placed about. A lovely bouquet was stood on the mantlepiece, giving the room a light, fresh aroma, and the counterpane on the four-poster bed had been turned down. Anna pressed her palm to her chest when she saw the sprig of early wildflowers that had been tied with a neat bow and laid in the center of the bed to rest against the pillows.

Anna turned to Lady Mary with wide eyes.

"You can't use it tonight, of course," Lady Mary said, "but this shall be your apartment until the cottage is ready."

Anna's eyes grew damp and she looked at John, who stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"I don't know what to say, my lady." Anna swallowed as she looked back at the lovely room. "Who did all this?"

"Jane. Her Ladyship and I helped a little." Lady Mary smiled, beckoning to John, and he stepped slowly into the room. Lady Mary gestured across the hall. "The bathroom on this wing has also been reserved for your sole use."

Anna blinked and smiled, turning once again to take it all in. "My lady. Thank you very, very much."

"My lady," John echoed, his voice soft and thick with emotion. "This is far more than we ever imagined."

Lady Mary lifted her chin and folded her hands together. "It was the least we could do."

Anna and John exchanged a glance of disbelief, then saw that Lady Mary had stepped out into the hall and now stood waiting expectantly. They quickly moved to follow her, and John switched off the lamps and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Good night," Lady Mary said, smiling again. "I will see you both in the morning. You will have the weekend to yourselves. You may come and go as you wish."

"Good night, my lady," John answered softly.

Anna trembled, too overwhelmed to speak, and she pressed her lips together and nodded.

With a final quiet smile, Lady Mary walked back around the corner, leaving them in silence.

"What an extraordinary woman," John said.

Anna burst into tears.

* * *

The servants' hall was filled with good cheer the next morning, as everyone had the morning off and were readying themselves for the wedding, but when Mrs Hughes opened the servants' entrance door, she grimaced.

"Oh good," Vera Bates said smoothly, holding her handbag neatly in front of her. "I'm not too late."

Mrs Hughes moved to block her way. "You're not welcome in this house."

Vera Bates's lip curled and she gave the housekeeper a small, vicious smile. "Oh, I know  _that_. I've just come with a wedding gift."

At Mrs Hughes's frown, Vera Bates held out a newspaper. "I'll see you at the church." She smiled, handing Mrs Hughes the paper. There was a girlish giggle in the hall behind the housekeeper and Vera Bates's eyes flickered to see past her, but Mrs Hughes stepped back inside and firmly closed the door. She paused on the landing, not wanting to look down at the newspaper in her hands.

Carson emerged from his office with a spring in his step, although his expression was as severe as always. He caught sight of Mrs Hughes, frowning and unmoving, and he changed course, striding up to stand before her.

"Mrs Hughes?" he asked gently. "Are you quite all right?"

She looked up at him and pressed her lips together. "May I speak privately?"

He frowned. "Yes, of course." He led the way to his office and closed the door behind her. "What's this about?"

"I have a dreadful suspicion," she answered in a clipped tone, and she moved past him, unfolding a newspaper.

"I thought I already ironed those," he said, blinking in confusion.

"This isn't one of the usual deliveries," she answered, and spread the paper open across his desk.

"What are you looking for?"

She moved her finger quickly down the page, then flipped to the next page and repeated the gesture. "Ah!" Her lips flattened and her mouth pulled down. "Damn."

Carson's eyebrows shot up. He'd never heard the dignified woman before him utter so unladylike a word. He hurried to her side and frowned down at where her hand rested. His heart dropped and he gasped.

Mrs Hughes chuckled. "She's going to be in for a nasty surprise."

Carson straightened. "Was that her, just now?"

"Yes," Mrs Hughes answered, folding up the newspaper with businesslike precision. A smile tugged at her lips and Carson found that he couldn't resist responding in kind. Elsie Hughes smiled only rarely, but when she did, he always felt lighter. "I think the fire in the kitchen is dying down, Mr Carson, don't you?"

He grinned. "I do indeed. You'd better go see to that, Mrs Hughes."

"My pleasure," she answered, and when he opened the door for her, she marched through, her head held high. She paused out in the hall and turned, the newspaper held loosely in her hand. "Will you tell His Lordship?"

"Yes," Carson replied, sobering. "Straightaway."

* * *

"It was a good idea you had, conducting the service in the old abbey," Matthew observed in a low tone, as he took his place in the narrow room beside Mary. It was the oldest room in the house, with a small, stained-glass window set in one wall. The glass was warped with age and only a faint light shone through—the room had long since been surrounded by the rest of the great house—but its simplicity and its subject matter forbade its removal. Generations of Crawleys had left this room largely untouched, the undressed stone still exposed along the walls. "No unwanted visitors can disturb us."

"We  _live_  in the old abbey," Mary replied softly. "The great hall used to be the main sanctuary."

"I know," Matthew whispered back, as Travis took his place in front of the faintly-lit, simple image of the Virgin and Child. "I studied the family history when I came to Downton, remember?"

"Willingly?" she asked.

"Of course. I love to study history, particularly when it is made visible through architecture."

"Will you two stop with the  _chatter?_ " Cora hissed. "They're outside!"

Mary and Matthew exchanged a grin and then sobered. The room was small, and with the number of people inside, it was standing room only. No organ played the familiar strains, but the household could at least give the bride and groom the courtesy of solemn, respectful silence.

John Bates advanced through the room, his head held high despite his limp, and he stopped when he reached the clergyman. When John heard the rustling of clothes behind him, he turned, and his face lit up with a warm smile.

Anna Smith, holding a small bouquet of calla lilies and wearing a matching grin, proceeded towards him. Daisy moved closely behind her, pausing to ensure that Anna's short train was arranged when she reached her place beside John, and then the kitchen maid moved quickly to the side, her eyes damp.

"Dearly beloved," Travis intoned, looking up at the assembled household, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence..."

Still looking ahead, Matthew reached for Mary's hand and she slipped her fingers around his, fitting her palm against his own in a familiar embrace. He swallowed and blinked, smiling as he saw her cheeks pull up in his peripheral vision.

Yes, he was a happy man, indeed.


	30. Chapter 30

_30_

**April 1919**

Dressed in his best suit, Thomas stood before Mr Carson's desk after breakfast and fixed an expression on his face that he hoped conveyed humility, not desperation.

"I let you stay on for the wedding, but that was a month ago. Downton is not a hostel," Mr Carson replied, not looking up as he continued jotting notes in his logbook.

"No, Mr Carson."

"And you made such a point of not being a servant any more," Mr Carson bit out. "Our ears are ringing with it."

There was a noise out in the hall and Thomas angled himself slightly towards the desk.

"The trouble is..." Thomas said in a low tone, glancing back as a hall boy went past with a basket of firewood. "I'm a little out of pocket at the moment."

"I cannot say I'm sympathetic," Mr Carson answered, looking up with a flat expression. He didn't lower his voice at all. "When you dabble in the black market—"

Thomas froze, his stomach dropping. "I just need some more time, Mr Carson..."

But Mr Carson had already returned to his logbook. He glanced up now in annoyance. "How long is it since the last patient left, Sergeant? You are trespassing on our generosity."

Mr Carson set his mouth in a flat line and raised his eyebrows, waiting in expectant silence.

Thomas glanced down. "I'll try to make myself useful," he offered.

With an efficient flourish of his pen, Mr Carson returned to his logbook. "Just find somewhere to go."

After an awkward pause, Thomas hurried out.

* * *

"I just want to move on," Sybil said. "I feel so  _flat_  now." She turned to Mary, who sat on her left. "How can you bear the boredom?"

Mary looked across the table at Matthew, who met her eyes with a smirk. They were having lunch at a pub in Ripon—not Mary's usual sort of establishment, but Matthew and Tom were perfectly at ease, of course, and Sybil seemed not to care who overheard their conversation. Giving the patrons at the nearest table a careful glance, Mary dabbed at her lips and turned to Sybil.

"I've been rather...occupied, to be honest," Mary replied.

Sybil frowned. "Whatever with?"

Mary glanced at Matthew again. He was grinning at her now, his mouth still closed as he chewed. She widened her eyes at him in warning.

"Making up for lost time, I imagine," Tom answered dryly, giving Sybil a significant look and tilting his head towards Matthew.

Sybil continued frowning. Then her mouth dropped open slightly and a blush rose on her skin. "Oh."

" _Yes_ ," Mary said, glaring at Tom. "Matthew's rehabilitation continues. We've been taking walks—"

"— _long_  walks," Sybil murmured, her eyes now dancing with humour. "You two were gone all of yesterday afternoon!"

Mary set her jaw and looked across at Matthew, as if to say  _This is all your fault_.

Matthew straightened and cleared his throat. "So, Sybil," he asked, raising his eyebrows as he laid his napkin back down across his lap. "If Tom accepts my offer, what are your plans for the interim?"

Sybil looked at him with a slight frown. "What do you mean?"

Matthew shrugged as he picked up his knife and fork again. "Well, it could be another two years before you wed." Tom scowled down at the table and Mary gave him a disapproving glance. Matthew continued, still looking at Sybil. "Will you find some occupation for yourself in the meantime? Charity work, perhaps? Mother says they need volunteers to help with the refugees."

"Lately, she's been talking a great deal more about the plight of women who have been left to raise their families alone," Mary said.

No one mentioned Ethel, but the former housemaid was obviously on everyone's minds. After sharing an uncomfortable glance with Tom, Sybil straightened and smoothed her napkin.

"I was thinking of finding a job as a nurse, actually," she said.

Mary frowned. "I thought Dr Clarkson was content with the staffing levels."

"Perhaps I shall go farther afield," Sybil declared.

Mary gave her a look. "You've discussed this with Papa, have you?"

"As you said, I'm twenty-one," Sybil replied tartly, returning to her meal. "I don't need his permission."

"But you will need his money if you're to settle somewhere else to work," Mary said. "And let me be clear: Tom will not be travelling there to see you unescorted."

"Who gave you the right to order me about?" Sybil asked, incensed.

"You will agree to abide by our terms, or Matthew's offer will be rescinded," Mary answered calmly, glancing across the table at Matthew. He settled back in his chair with a slight frown and looked at Sybil.

"It's for your own protection," he said gently. "I should think Ethel's story is a sufficient argument."

Tom was frowning, too, and he looked across the table at Sybil. "They're right."

Sybil pressed her lips together. She moved to cross her arms, then seemed to think better of it and left them on her lap instead as she looked away, annoyed.

"I hate being treated like a child," she said finally, looking back at them all. "Does it count for nothing that Tom and I have shown the proper restraint for more than two years?"

"It counts for a great deal," Matthew answered. "We would not be having these conversations at all, otherwise. But surely you must see that it is far better to avoid all appearance of wrongdoing than to put yourself in a situation where you must continually fight temptation."

Sybil met Tom's eyes and held his gaze for a long moment. He finally sighed, giving a small nod. She looked away.

"Well, if Dr Clarkson doesn't need me, and I cannot settle away from home," Sybil said, "what options are left? I cannot take a nursing job in Ripon: no one would hire a nurse whose schedule was so constrained by travel."

"They would be privileged to have a Lady among them," Mary replied.

Sybil shook her head. "I'll not traffic on the family name to get special treatment. That would only breed discontent with the other nurses. They would think of me as merely a bored, rich young woman in search of amusement. No one would treat me as a  _real_  nurse."

Mary tilted her head in acknowledgement and took a bite.

"But you aren't a real nurse," Tom said, quickly putting up a hand at Sybil's sudden glare. "You only trained for a few weeks with the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Will anyone hire you as a nurse now the war is over?"

Sybil frowned. "I have two years of clinical experience," she replied. "I'm probably more qualified than most women who have only graduated from a nursing college."

"That's as may be," Tom replied. "But have you made any enquiries yet?"

"No..." Sybil answered slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. "What are you suggesting?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps you should enter a proper nursing college. They might be willing to accelerate your education if you mention your prior experience."

"That's an excellent idea," Matthew said with a smile.

"No, it's not," Mary cut in. "It's ridiculous. What would be the purpose? She'd finish just as she and Tom wed, and no one would hire her once she's married. She could swan off at any time if she's in the family way. More to the point, earls' daughters don't attend nursing colleges. It's just not done. Sybil might as well declare her intention to become a physician, for all the good it will do her. Papa will never support such a venture."

Sybil's eyes widened.

"I think he might," Matthew replied. "Particularly if she presents him with the alternative."

"What?" Mary scoffed, lowering her voice as her eyes darted about the room. Their table was isolated, set back in the corner, as she had requested. "Running away with the chauffeur?"

"No," Matthew answered. He gave her an exasperated look as he put down his utensils, then softened his expression and smirked at Sybil. "Continuing to drive your parents to distraction with an endless succession of political and philanthropic schemes."

Tom laughed.

Mary shot him a warning look. "You're not helping."

"Neither are you," Matthew said. "Why shouldn't Sybil become a proper nurse? She has a gift for it. I know Cousin Cora has begun planning for the Season, but let's be honest," he gestured at Sybil, "there aren't many men beating a path to her door." He glanced at her. "No offence intended."

"None taken," she replied. "I much prefer it this way, actually."

Tom smiled.

"Matthew and Tom are right," Sybil continued, her face alight. "Why did I never see it before now? This is  _exactly_  the purpose I've been searching for! I can be a suffragist and pursue medicine all at once!" Oblivious to their sudden glances of confusion, she turned to Mary with a glowing smile. "You are such a dear!"

Sybil pushed her chair back and stood, putting her hand affectionately on Mary's shoulder. Tom and Matthew automatically got to their feet, as Mary half-frowned up at Sybil in surprise.

Sybil grinned at them all. Then, not seeing them follow in her excitement, she spread her hands in a  _Don't you see?_  gesture. "I will become a physician!"

At their three open-mouthed stares, she gave an amused nod.

"Would you please excuse me," she said. "I need to visit the ladies'."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away. The men sank slowly back down into their seats.

Mary turned her glare on Matthew.  _This is all_ your _fault!_

Matthew, whose mouth was still open, closed it and frowned at her, giving an annoyed shrug and turning his palms up.  _How? It was_ your _idea!_

Mary made an abortive gesture towards Sybil's empty seat.  _You were encouraging her_.

Tom gave a low growl of frustration and, not meeting their eyes, abruptly put his napkin down on the table and rose. Without another word, he strode to the front door and went out.

Mary raised her eyebrows at Matthew.

He exhaled and looked away, pressing his lips together.

* * *

"Mr Carson's finally told me to pack up," Thomas said, pulling out a chair at the long table in the servant's hall and sitting down beside O'Brien. She looked up from her letters with raised eyebrows. Jane, who sat across from her, glanced up from her book then quickly looked back down again, feigning disinterest in the conversation. Drawing a fag out of his pack, Thomas ignored her and all the other servants who were enjoying their few minutes' rest while they took their afternoon tea.

O'Brien watched him as he lit up. "You can't have expected to live here free forever."

"I didn't expect to get booted out." He muttered, throwing the lighter on the table.

"You'll have to find some work," she answered quietly.

Frowning, he plucked the fag from his mouth and rested his hand on the table. "It's not that easy." He exhaled smoke and spoke in an undertone. "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry is looking for work these days and they don't all have a hand like a Jules Verne experiment."

He took a long draw and O'Brien looked back down at her letters, her mouth set in a flat line.

Anna and Bates, laughing together, entered through the back entrance. They paused in the doorway when they saw everyone seated at the table.

"Lovely day for a walk?" Jane asked, her blue eyes dancing with humour.

Bates chuckled softly and Anna grinned.

"Perfectly lovely," she answered.

Thomas sneered and looked away, exhaling another cloud of smoke. There was nothing worse than a pair of cheerful lovers, particularly  _this_  pair. That Bates, the crippled, criminal usurper, should be flying high, and Thomas should be out on his ear, with nary a kind word after so many years of faithful service, grated on Thomas's nerves.

"Perfectly revolting, more like," Thomas muttered to O'Brien, and she chuckled quietly.

Thomas's words had carried in the silence, of course, but Bates and Anna only turned away, Bates's hand settled possessively in the small of her back and their smiles unchanged.

Mr Carson strode past them, stepping into the servants' hall with a brief glance that encompassed the whole room. His arrival signalled the end of tea, and chairs scraped the floor as they all rose.

"Everyone look sharp," he commanded. "We'll have the whole family to dinner this evening, and I want the place  _spotless_ , do you hear?"

A susurrus of "Yes, Mr Carson" filled the room as everyone quietly filed out. Mr Carson gave Thomas a sharp look and Thomas continued past him, quickly skirting around the older man, but he checked his stride and twisted when he heard Anna's question.

"Are you quite well, Mr Carson?"

But Mr Carson only brushed her off and went to review the duty notebook resting on the shelf at the end of the room. Thomas caught the worried look she exchanged with Bates, but when they noticed his curiosity, he picked a direction at random and strode off, striving to look as though he had places to go and things to do.

* * *

"I'm not saying it's  _wrong_ ," Tom said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the motor as they drove home. When the other three had finally emerged from the pub, he was back in uniform and standing beside the car. The reminder of their true situation had quickly put an end to the initial ease between them during lunch, leaving the mood in the car now muted and tense. "It will involve far more than merely two years to achieve. That's all I'm saying. Just as you don't want me to accept Matthew's offer without consulting you, I don't want you to commit to this path without consulting me."

His eyes met Sybil's in the rear-view mirror. Her mouth was pressed into a flat line, but she nodded, glancing around the car. Matthew remained silent beside Tom, and Mary, seated behind Tom, looked out the window, displeasure evident in her stiff posture.

Sybil frowned. "I just thought you all would be more supportive," she said. She looked at the back of Matthew's head. "After our discussion about  _The Subjection of Women_ , I thought you would understand. Women can be— _are_ —just as good at practising medicine as men are." Mary gave a soft huff of annoyance, but Sybil pressed on. "Opportunities for women, true equality, will only be brought about by being brave and unafraid, and stepping up to do what needs to be done."

"I  _do_  understand," Tom replied. He swallowed. "It is just such a  _long_  commitment, and what of raising a family?" His eyes flickered to hers in the mirror again, before returning to the road.

"Why must I choose between being a doctor and being a mother?" Sybil asked. "Men do not have to make such a choice between a profession and fatherhood."

Mary turned on her. "Because men do not bear and nurture children, Sybil. Why do you insist on being so wilfully ignorant?"

"I'm  _not_  ignorant!" Sybil snapped. "I'm asking a perfectly reasonable question. And be honest: do you truly think Mama is all that terribly inconvenienced by Edward? She spends only one hour each day with him."

"Nannies cost money, Sybil," Mary answered. "You'll be relying on Papa to finance your education. Do you truly expect him to pay for a nanny, as well?"

Sybil fell silent, frowning.

"Men  _do_  have to make a choice between their profession and fatherhood," Matthew said after a long moment, turning his head in their direction. "It is always a choice." He frowned. "Some choose to neglect their families in favour of professional gain."

"But it's not the same," Sybil protested. "You cannot honestly tell me that you have ever faced the prospect of being forced to give up your profession to be a father."

"No," Matthew acknowledged. "But do not assume, just because men seem to have more freedoms, that we are not also constrained in our own way. It  _has_  occurred to me that...if we ever have children, I shouldn't like to be forced to spend most of their growing years trapped in an office, away from them."

Mary regarded him with an odd expression, pressing her lips together. Sybil smiled and touched her sister's hand, but Mary only gave her a quick, wide-eyed glance, then turned her gaze back out the window again.

Sybil looked at Tom in the rear-view mirror, waiting until he lifted his eyes to hers. He smiled, apology clear in his gaze, and she smiled back. When his attention returned to the road, however, she frowned. She didn't know what the future held, only that now she had more questions than answers swirling in her heart.

* * *

Branson held the door open for Lady Mary and Lady Sybil, and they stepped down from the car. Carson smiled as they approached.

"Good afternoon, Carson," Lady Mary said, passing him. Anna waited inside to take their things.

"Good afternoon, my lady," Carson replied with a deferential nod. "Lady Sybil."

"Carson," Lady Sybil said. "Is Cousin Isobel coming for dinner tonight?"

"I believe she is, my lady."

"Excellent!" Lady Sybil smiled and continued inside.

Carson frowned when he saw that Mr Crawley had once again remained to exchange an amused word with Branson. It had all started a month earlier, with that strange evening phone call for Mr Crawley. The chauffeur should not be encouraging such familiarity with a member of the family, Carson thought. He would have a word with Branson as soon as the man returned to the servants' hall.

Mr Crawley, smiling, gave Branson a nod before striding towards the house, his cane flicking along the gravel. Carson was pleased to see such a spring in the young man's step. Things really were looking up.

"Good afternoon, Carson."

"Good afternoon, sir. You're looking very well."

Mr Crawley paused, smiling. "I'm feeling well, thank you."

"Matthew!" a little voice cried, accompanied by the sudden patter of small footfalls in the great hall. "Come see what I found!"

Mr Crawley grinned and looked past Carson. "I'm afraid I'm being summoned."

"We mustn't ignore the young Master," Carson agreed with a knowing tilt of his head. "Today it's a wood cricket."

"Ah," Mr Crawley replied, raising an eyebrow. "No, I mustn't miss that."

Chuckling, he continued on inside, amidst further excited calls of "Matthew! Matthew! Come see!"

Carson turned to look back at the car. Branson had climbed up inside and he put the motor into gear, driving off. Carson frowned at the receding vehicle.

* * *

Sybil found her father standing beside his desk in the library, sorting through papers. Isis moved restlessly beside him, her tail wagging intermittently, each time he shifted his weight. He made a noncommittal noise and laid down a sheet of paper.

"Good afternoon, Papa."

He glanced up with a smile when he noticed Sybil's approach.

"Good afternoon," he said. "How was your trip to Ripon? Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sybil smiled, but then half-frowned as she made a small gesture with her hands. "I'm not sure. Yes. I think so." She looked at him. "Do you have a few minutes?"

Robert chuckled. "It's that serious, eh? I take it you weren't looking for a new hat?"

"No..." Sybil sighed.

Robert straightened, his attention shifting away from his papers as he looked more closely at her. He laid them down and took a step in her direction.

Isis gave a sudden wagging bound, but Robert held out his hand, palm flat. She subsided, barely sitting again, still a tense bundle of eager energy.

Looking back up at Sybil, he said, "You've seemed out of sorts lately, my dear. Are you well?"

"What? Oh. Oh, yes." She frowned. "It's just that, now the war is over... I know I should be overjoyed, but instead I just feel...flat."

Robert nodded. "I know only too well what you mean. Would you like to walk?"

At this, Isis bounded up and nearly crashed into the door in her excitement.

Sybil laughed. "What's gotten into her?"

"Spring," Robert replied in a dry tone. He strode to the door and threw it open, finally allowing Isis to fling herself out on to the lawn. She raced to a tree, sniffed it, then raced to a shrubbery, then darted back to run along the side of the house.

"Don't you usually take her out in the morning?" Sybil asked as she followed her father outside.

"Usually," he answered. "But I had business to get through this morning."

They walked along in the comfortably cool air, silent for a short while, content to watch Isis frolic. She ran past them again and gave a happy bark.

A bass chorus echoed from where the hunting dogs were penned near the stables and Isis lifted her head, her ears pricking forward. She leapt in that direction, but Robert gave a sharp call, bringing her to a jumpy stop.

She seemed caught between the two calls, prancing first in one direction, then the other, but when Robert called again, she came to heel. He paused and crouched beside her, rewarding her with a pat and a treat from his pocket, murmuring endearments and showering attention on her until the other dogs subsided.

"Good girl, good girl..." he said and, giving her a final pat, he straightened up again. They resumed walking, Isis now staying nearby. "Spring," he repeated with a chuckle, looking at Sybil.

She gave a small smile. "I know how she feels."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "Is there anyone who takes your interest? Your mother hasn't mentioned any letters for you."

Sybil looked away, idly picking at her fingertips. "I haven't had any letters, no."

Robert gave her an encouraging smile. "You'll be going to London soon for new dresses. I'm sure this Season will be splendid. Everyone will be quite eager to put the war behind them."

"But Papa..." Sybil sighed. "I don't want to just do the Season, find a husband, and keep house."

Robert paused, fixing her in his gaze, and she drew to a stop beside him. Bored, Isis trotted off to nose in the underbrush.

"What are you saying?" he asked slowly.

Sybil drew in a deep breath, matching his direct look with her own. "I want to study to become a physician."

Robert's brows drew down as his mouth fell open. "A Lady doctor? Where did you get this mad idea?"

"Why does it matter?" Sybil asked. "I know it's what I'm meant to do. I've been restless, searching, looking for my place in the world. At first, I thought politics..." She drifted off as Robert grimaced and looked away. "But Edith is so much better at expressing her views, and I have no desire to be a writer. What change can I effect by merely attending rallies and canvassing?" She focused on Robert again. "But helping people in pain— _that_  I can do."

"Why not just take a nursing job?" he asked, turning back to her. "I can have a word with Dr Clarkson. I'm sure he'd be happy to have you."

Sybil shook her head. "I want to do more, to go farther than Downton, Papa. This is  _right_. I know it."

Robert turned away, frowning deeply, and began walking again. Sybil fell into step beside him. She kept glancing up at him, waiting for him to speak.

When he finally did, he was terse. "It's just not the done thing."

Sybil gave him a look of disbelief. "So you've nothing to say against my ambition except that 'it's just not the done thing'?"

"Don't be such a baby," Robert snapped. "I'm not asking you to agree with the system. Merely to acknowledge it."

"But I  _don't_  acknowledge it," she answered. "You want me to give up my dreams, the opportunity to make a real difference and to do some good in the world, for a system I don't believe in. Where's the sense in that?"

Robert set his jaw and continued walking. Sybil went on with him, her lips pressed together as she frowned. Ahead of them, Isis treed a squirrel and set to barking at it. The bass chorus near the stables started up again with renewed vigour, and Robert sighed.

* * *

"How did that all go so pear-shaped?" Mary demanded, when Matthew stepped into their bedroom some time later.

He sighed, walking past where she stood.

"I thought we'd agreed on how to navigate the conversation," she continued, turning to face him. "We would ensure their agreement to our terms, and once that business was concluded, have a bit of fun schooling Tom. There was no need to begin making small talk about Sybil's plans to alleviate her  _ennui_."

"I was just being friendly," Matthew protested, flopping down into the armchair and dropping his head back. He rested his stick across his knees and rubbed his eyes with one hand.

"You must  _plan_  these things, darling. Everything is a minefield. Surely you know that by now."

Matthew dropped his hand and looked at her. "It doesn't have to be, you know. I think Sybil training to become a physician is a marvellous idea."

Mary turned away, putting one hand on her hip and waving the other hand dismissively. "You would."

He fixed her in a level gaze. "Do you truly object to a woman becoming a physician?"

She rounded on him. "Of course not! This is about  _Sybil_."

"Then what do you object to?"

Mary sighed and turned away again, frowning. "It's just not  _done_. People will talk."

"Sybil doesn't care about that."

"Because she's a naïve idealist, Matthew. I care, because I know that her position is far more precarious than she realises. Mama and Papa do, as well. So does Granny."

Matthew raised his eyebrows, amused. "Somehow, I suspect Cousin Violet will take Sybil's side in this. She did when Sybil wanted to be a nurse."

Mary shook her head. "That was during wartime."

"You said it yourself: things are changing."

She frowned. "And suppose that she does manage to—against all odds—convince Papa to go along with this mad scheme. What then? Will she live alone among strangers, friendless and defenceless, an easy target?" Mary fixed Matthew in a sharp gaze. "I should think you, of all people, would understand the dangers in that. Consider what happened to your mother."

Matthew's brows drew down into a deep frown and he sat forward. "How do you know about that?"

Mary swallowed and looked out the window beside him, suddenly chilled. "She told me, once. Oh, not all the particulars...but enough for me to get the general picture." Mary looked back at Matthew. "I admire Sybil's ideals. I do. I just fear for her."

Matthew gave a heavy sigh and looked down at his hands, clasping them. After a long moment, he set his stick aside and pushed himself to his feet.

"You won't be able to stop her," he said quietly, approaching Mary. "Fear that keeps women in their place is the very thing she wants to fight against."

His hands closed over Mary's where they rested on her upper arms, and she realised she was hugging herself. She relaxed her arms and slipped them inside the warmth of his suit coat instead, allowing him to embrace her, then closed her eyes and settled against him.

After a moment, however, she opened her eyes again and frowned, drawing back. "Can you manage without your stick?"

"You are my stick," he replied, smiling.

She sighed with contentment and embraced him again, holding him for a long moment. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered. "That's going to depend on Tom."

There was a soft knock on the door and they drew apart. Matthew bent to retrieve his stick as Jane looked into the room, her manner tentative.

"My lady? Mr Carson's just rung the dressing gong."

"You may come in, Jane," Mary replied. "We're finished here."

Giving her a final smile, Matthew walked into his dressing room, letting Molesley close the door behind him.

"Where is Anna?" Mary asked.

"Oh, Mrs Hughes just asked her to see to something, so I'm to get you started and she'll be up directly."

Nodding, Mary turned quickly towards her closet to choose a gown, but she paused and frowned, putting a hand on her stomach. A familiar, unpleasant swirl of nausea, even a little dizziness, made her reach quickly for the bedpost to steady herself, and there was an uncomfortable prickling along the back of her neck. She felt suddenly flushed, too warm.

"My lady?" Jane asked, hurrying over with a worried glance.

Mary shook herself, drawing in a deep breath and straightening. As happy as she was at the prospect of having a child, sometimes being in an expectant state was decidedly unpleasant.

"A glass of water, I think, Jane, and then I shall dress."

Jane smiled politely. "Very good, my lady." The smile wavered a little. "Do you wish to sit down? Anna told me that...you might need to rest."

Mary lifted her chin. "She did?"

"Well, she...suggested it," Jane answered with a small shrug, smiling warmly now. "My Freddie is ten years old, but I remember well what it felt like, before he came. Don't hesitate to ask for a thing."

Mary looked away with a nod, and Jane went to fetch Mary's water.

* * *

Tom unbuttoned his uniform jacket and threw it over the back of a chair at the table in the servants' hall, stretching his neck from side to side as he watched everyone going about their work. The kitchen staff and housemaids bustled with preparations for dinner and the hall boys hurried to and fro, setting the table for the servants' meal and staying out of Mrs Hughes's way as she barked orders.

With a sigh of relief, Tom pulled out the chair and sat down. It had been a long, odd day. He poured himself some water from the pitcher and lifted the cup to his lips just as Mr Carson strode into the room.

Tom immediately set the cup down and stood.

"Mr Branson, may I have a word?"

"Of course, Mr Carson." Tom pushed his chair back in and went round the table, following the butler's large, imposing form as they went down the hallway towards the man's office. Tom fought a sense of dread.

He surreptitiously wiped his palms on his trousers as he walked, giving Mrs Hughes a friendly smile when she passed him with a curious expression. She did not smile back, which discomfited him. Had he done something wrong? Was he about to be sacked? But surely not: he hadn't heard a word of anyone being displeased with his performance, and he couldn't think of anything that might have gone wrong. No one had spotted him in Ripon today, had they?

Mr Carson entered his office and Tom followed, making a questioning gesture towards the door as Mr Carson took his place behind his desk. Mr Carson nodded, so Tom pushed it closed.

"I'll be brief, Mr Branson, as the dinner preparations are underway. I have noticed that Mr Crawley seems to be befriending you, and I would remind you that it is in your best interests not to encourage such familiarity with our employers."

Tom pushed his hands into his pockets, relaxing. "Oh, I understand that, sir. I have never approached Mr Matthew, but if he wishes to speak, I can hardly prevent him."

Mr Carson frowned. "No, but you can harden your manner, only speak when spoken to, and answer as little as necessary."

Tom tilted his head slightly. "Wouldn't that seem rude, sir?"

Mr Carson straightened. "On the contrary, Mr Branson, it would be the proper thing to do. It would serve as a useful reminder of the distinctions between you, thus enabling Mr Crawley to sever any developing connection without fear of giving offence."

"I'm only a chauffeur, Mr Carson," Tom replied. "Mr Matthew hardly has reason to be concerned about that."

Mr Carson's expression softened somewhat. "Mr Crawley is...a different sort," the butler replied. "We must help him to remember his place, and ours, at times. He was not born to this life and—" Mr Carson gave a sudden grimace and bent, putting one hand down on his desk and bringing the other to his stomach. Tom pulled his hands out of his pockets and took a step towards the older man.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Mr Carson put up a hand to forestall Tom, then straightened and tugged at his waistcoat. He lifted his chin.

"It was nothing. As I was saying—" he frowned and cleared his throat. "—Mr Crawley has been somewhat isolated since he arrived at Downton. He is neither one of  _them_  nor a villager. As such, he has made few friends, socially speaking, since coming here. It may be that you are one of the only men he has had opportunity to befriend, but you must guard against this development. It cannot end well."

Tom lifted his own chin. "Are you so certain? The war has broken many barriers."

Mr Carson fixed him in a glare. "Not this one. Now, Mr Crawley received a telephone call a few weeks ago and immediately wished to speak with you. I presume it concerned some matter of business. Is there anything going on between you that I should know about?"

"I'm...not certain I'm at liberty to discuss it," Tom replied carefully, swallowing. "It's also Mr Crawley's business."

Mr Carson narrowed his eyes. "That's a 'yes', then. You're not in some sort of financial trouble, are you?"

"No."

Mr Carson opened his mouth to continue, but he suddenly grimaced and wavered, bracing himself on the desk again and closing his eyes. He was flushed and shaky, completely unlike himself. Tom frowned, resisting the urge to rush forward as he watched the butler carefully.

Just then, there was a rap on the door and it swung open.

Mrs Hughes glanced between them, briskly stepping in with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on a tray. "I thought this might tide you over—Mr Carson! Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh," Mr Carson groaned, lowering himself with great care into his chair. "I'm sure I'll be all right if I can just stay still for a moment—"

"You will not stay still," Mrs Hughes replied, setting down the tray on the table beside the door. She went round the desk, her tone brooking no dissent. "Not down here. Get to bed this minute! I'll send for the doctor."

"I can't," Mr Carson protested weakly. "We've got Sir Anthony and Lady Edith coming, not to mention Mrs Crawley and Lady Grantham—"

"I'll deal with it," Mrs Hughes replied, bending to take his arm. Tom stepped back, ready to take the butler's other arm if need be, when they came around the desk.

Mr Carson swallowed and rose, raising a finger as an idea came to him. "Look, get Mr Molesley to help."

"There's no need," Mrs Hughes answered, watching him with a worried expression.

"I mean it," Mr Carson insisted with a frown. "The war is no longer an excuse for sloppy presentation." He looked unsteady on his feet; sweat had risen on his brow.

Mrs Hughes sighed and patted his arm. "Oh, very well, I'll ask him, but only on condition you go to bed!" She glanced at Tom, who nodded.

"I'll see him up," Tom said.

"You'll do no such thing!" Mr Carson insisted, despite using his desk to steady himself as he rounded it. He made as if to say more, but then coughed and merely shook his head.

Tom stepped back to allow them room to pass, but he worried, his eyes following the older man. Mr Carson gave Mrs Hughes a nod and she reluctantly released his arm. Forcing himself to straighten, Mr Carson walked off towards the stairs, touching the wall a time or two as his pace slowed.

After exchanging a final, concerned glance, Mrs Hughes and Tom parted ways.

* * *

Robert, dressed for dinner, stood looking down at a note on Cora's desk, his hands behind his back. His posture was stiff, annoyed, and Cora closed her eyes with a sigh.

O'Brien finished buttoning Cora's sleeve and looked up at her with a worried glance. "Are you too hot in that, my lady? We still have time to change."

"No, I'm fine," Cora replied, glancing across to Robert. She smiled meaningfully down at O'Brien. "Thank you."

Taking the hint, O'Brien quickly exited the room. Robert turned, watching the maid leave, and Cora sank down into the nearest armchair. She felt slightly dizzy and hoped it would soon pass. Really, she was in no mood for one of Robert's temper tantrums; Sybil's timing couldn't have been worse.

Fixing a patient look on her features, Cora asked, "So what do we do next?"

"God knows!" Robert snapped, stalking towards her, past the bed. "This is what comes of spoiling her. The mad clothes, the nursing. Now she wants to be a  _physician_ , for God's sake! What were we thinking of?"

"That's not fair," Cora said, shaking her head and keeping her voice even with an effort. "She's a wonderful nurse and she's worked very hard."

"But in the process she's forgotten who she is!"

"Has she, Robert?" Cora gave him a challenging look. "Or have we overlooked who she really is?"

He regarded her with a long-suffering, defeated air, turning to leave. "If you're turning American on me, I'll go downstairs."

Cora closed her eyes and sighed as he began to stalk past her, but a knock made them both pause.

"Come in," he called, stopping near her chair.

Carson appeared, looking a bit haggard, and made an obvious effort to straighten.

"I must apologise, my lord. I am...unwell. Mr Molesley will serve in my place this evening."

"Well, of course you must retire if you don't feel well," Cora said, twisting in her seat with a worried frown. "I'm sure Molesley will manage just fine."

"Yes, Your Ladyship." Carson wavered slightly and his grip on the doorknob tightened.

"Surely you didn't need to deliver this news personally, Carson," Robert said, stepping forward with a look of concern.

"This was only part of my purpose in coming," Carson replied, clearing his throat. "I believe there is some...matter of business...between Mr Crawley and Mr Branson, my lord."

Robert frowned. "What business?"

"I don't know, my lord. Mr Branson refused to speak of it, citing Mr Crawley's private concerns."

"His 'private concerns'?" Cora shot Robert a look. "Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"If he is, it isn't to do with money," Carson answered. "That's all I know."

"Thank you, Carson," Robert said. "I'll look into it. I'm sure it's nothing."

Carson nodded, pressing his lips together. "I'll take my leave now, my lord, Your Ladyship."

Cora and Robert nodded, and Carson bowed out, closing their door as he left.

Robert closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"I  _told_  you that you shouldn't have let Matthew take the car out by himself," Cora said.

"Yes, but your protest was based on his not being whole enough, not on the fear that he might fraternize with the servants." Robert sighed, turning back towards the door with a frown. "I thought he knew better than this."

"Now that he's no longer in a chair, he and Mary should begin making efforts to move along," Cora said, rising. She grimaced at the sudden rush of dizziness and the unpleasant turn of her stomach. She put a hand to her forehead, then straightened.

"It's only been  _three months_ , Cora," Robert answered, annoyed, still looking away. "Besides, no one goes house-hunting in winter unless it's absolutely necessary."

"But it's hardly winter any longer, is it? And they shouldn't need to hunt for a house, in any event. He already has his parents' house in Manchester."

"It's being let," Robert replied, then glared at her. "Why are you so eager to be rid of them? I thought you liked him."

Cora gave him a wide-eyed, exasperated gaze. "I  _do_  like him, Robert. But what has that to do with the price of eggs? They cannot live here indefinitely. Making the break sooner rather than later will be easier for all concerned. This is our home, and one day it will be Edward's. Mary cannot be permitted to hang about. If I must push her out of the nest, I will, but I would much rather that the decision to leave come from them."

"So you want me to put pressure on them, force them out."

"Well,  _anything_  would be better than your current approach of simply allowing them to continue on here without a hint of protest."

"Would it be so terrible, having our family nearby for a while longer?" Robert asked, softening his voice. "We just survived a war, for God's sake. Edward is only four years old. There's no need to rush. It's a large house."

"It's the principle of the thing, Robert," Cora answered, making a frustrated gesture. "Suppose there are grandchildren on the way. Do you think it will be any easier to get Mary and Matthew to leave later?"

Robert sighed. "Let me at least find out if Matthew has any job prospects lined up. I shouldn't like to drive them out before they know where they're going."

"Perhaps he does, and it's tangled up in this business with Branson," Cora replied, frowning as she crossed to the door.

"Oh goodness, I hope not." Robert rolled his eyes. "I don't want to deal with losing a chauffeur as well."

Cora shot him an exasperated look, but he ignored it and opened the door for her to go through. She frowned as she went out of the bedroom.

Mrs Hughes approached them. "My lady, if I might have a word? I've had an unexpected letter from Mrs Bryant."

At this, Robert moved swiftly past them, continuing on downstairs, and Cora shot an annoyed look at his back, then followed at a slower pace. Mrs Hughes fell into step beside her.

Cora fixed a polite smile on her face and turned to the housekeeper as they descended the stairs. "Yes?"

Mrs Hughes spoke briskly. "She says her husband wants to see Ethel's baby. They both do. I wonder if I might have your permission to allow the meeting to happen in the kitchen courtyard."

"So I don't have to receive that terrible Mr Bryant again?" Cora asked in relief, but then a wave of dizziness made her reach for the banister and she slowed. She was feeling oddly light-headed and too warm.

"No, it won't be necessary," Mrs Hughes replied. "They'll meet Ethel here, but then—should you be downstairs, my lady?"

Cora attempted a smile. "Oh, I'm perfectly all right, thank you." Mrs Hughes looked unconvinced, but Cora continued on. "The courtyard...should be fine. Do let me know how it goes."

Mrs Hughes nodded and paused at the bottom of the stairs, then moved away as Cora went into the sitting room.

* * *

Forks and knives clinked on the china as the family ate dinner in full state, carrying on without Mr Carson. Jane stood against the wall near the door, waiting until Mr Molesley beckoned for her or Anna to step forward and assist him. Although a third pair of hands was necessary with this many courses and the whole family gathered, Mr Carson had not wished for anyone to be reminded that they hadn't sufficient menservants at dinner-time, so she made herself as small and as quiet as possible. Mr Molesley moved from person to person, serving the main course. He'd stumbled once, but no one else seemed to notice except Anna, who didn't look concerned, so Jane held her peace and watched the family eat.

They were debating some new idea that Lady Sybil had about going to medical school, but Jane thought it unlikely that the girl would be permitted to follow through on her plans. Lady Sybil had done good work at the hospital, everyone knew that, but a lady in her position was expected to find a husband, not a profession. At the moment, however, the Dowager Countess and Mrs Crawley were arrayed against His Lordship in  _support_  of Lady Sybil's plan, while the rest of the family sat out the debate, exchanging awkward glances as they continued to eat.

Jane was stationed directly across from His Lordship, and although she did not permit her interest to be visible, she could not help watching him out of the corner of her eye. His shoulders were tense and he seemed tired. He was truly the lord of the manor, commanding and gracious, well-kept and sober. He did not exploit his position as so many of his class did. He took an interest in the goings-on of those within his care, even those of so little import as herself. There was a powerful warmth that rose in her breast when she thought of him.

Her Ladyship sighed and shifted in her seat, not joining in the debate or appearing to support her husband in any way. The woman was moderately kind and knew the business of running a household, but she did not strike Jane as a particularly warm sort, and Jane suspected that His Lordship was a bit lonely, with no one to talk to about his dearest concerns. Why else would he have mentioned his struggles to Jane, his worries about how Downton would make do after the war? The loss of so many of the tenants' and villagers' sons weighed heavily upon him, she could see that, and her heart broke a little for him.

He would find his way, she knew it. She smiled—barely—to herself.

There was a knock on the door beside Jane and everyone looked up.

Mrs Hughes stepped into the room. "I'm sorry to intrude, Your Lordship, but there's been a telephone call from Mr Maxwell." At this, Lady Edith and Sir Anthony straightened.

"Oh, what is it?" Lady Edith asked, pulling her serviette from her lap. "Is it the children?"

Mrs Hughes clasped her hands together and nodded, regret in her eyes. "I'm afraid they've fallen ill. Master Harold is asking for you, my lady, and their nanny says that Miss Sylvia's gone very hot."

"I was afraid of something like this!" Lady Edith said with wide eyes, putting her hand on Sir Anthony's forearm.

"Good God," His Lordship exclaimed, getting to his feet along with Mr Crawley, as Lady Edith and Sir Anthony quickly rose. "Not them, too!"

"Too?" Mrs Crawley inquired, exchanging a worried glance with the Dowager Countess.

"Edward fell ill this afternoon," Her Ladyship replied in a weary tone.

"Is his temperature high?" Mrs Crawley asked, sitting forward. "Has he been coughing or complained of a sore throat or a headache?"

"Mother," Mr Crawley put in firmly, "now is not the time."

Mrs Crawley subsided.

"Please accept our apologies," Sir Anthony said, resting his hand on Lady Edith's back. "To be honest, I haven't felt myself all evening, either."

As Her Ladyship began to rise, Lady Edith put out a hand. "Oh, don't get up, Mama. We'll see ourselves out. Good night."

The rest of the family murmured their good-byes as Mrs Hughes pulled open the door.

"I've already had Mr Marsters bring your car around," the housekeeper said, following them out.

"Thank you," Lady Edith replied as the door closed behind the three of them.

With the disturbance at an end, His Lordship and Mr Crawley retook their seats, and the family resumed their meal.

Jane glanced at Mr Molesley as he went into the side-room and stared at the row of decanters with an odd frown, blinking. She leaned towards him in question, but he made a quick sweep of his hand and she stood back again.

Her Ladyship sighed, looking across the table towards Mrs Crawley, who was still frowning in concern. "He's been in fits all day. I took pity on Nanny—she seemed at her wits' end—and I had Mrs Hughes send for a maid to help." Her Ladyship grimaced. "I'm afraid it's the 'flu."

A shudder ran through the room and Jane exchanged a worried glance with Anna, then frowned. Mr Molesley really was looking quite pale. He picked up a decanter, then blinked, seemed confused, and set it down before picking up another. Jane shook her head quickly and made a discreet gesture towards the correct decanter.

Mr Molesley gave her a tight smile and a nod before taking the proper decanter to the table. He bent and poured some wine into His Lordship's second goblet.

"Oh dear," Mrs Crawley was saying to herself. "I shouldn't have placed those refugees so quickly. I knew something was amiss. Oh dear..."

"Well, if they have brought Spanish 'flu, it's not your fault," Mr Crawley answered.

But Mrs Crawley only shook her head, her frown deepening. "Isn't it? Mrs Dupper's new maid has got it, and the Lanes's two labourers, and I placed them all. Oh, thank you, Molesley."

Mr Molesley gave her a nod and moved around the now-empty end of the table where Lady Edith and Sir Anthony had sat. Mr Molesley bent to pour wine in Mr Crawley's glass, but instead lost his balance slightly and the decanter bumped against the crystal goblet with a sharp ringing sound. Anna took a step forward, looking worried. Mr Molesley straightened and attempted to right himself.

Watching him with concern, Mr Crawley asked, "Mr Molesley? Are you quite well?"

The whole family paused and looked up at the valet.

"I—I'm all right. Thank you, sir," Mr Molesley replied with a slight bow, but he wavered.

"I don't believe you are," Mr Crawley answered, lowering his tone.

"The awful truth is," Her Ladyship said, with the slightest tremor in her voice, "I'm not quite all right, and I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to excuse me."

His Lordship immediately put aside his serviette and rose, and Mr Crawley did likewise, standing beside Her Ladyship. Mr Molesley moved to pull her chair back and Jane quickly went to the door to hold it open while Anna took the decanter from Mr Molesley.

"I'm so sorry," His Lordship said, concern clear in his tone. "Would you like us to call Dr Clarkson?"

"Not now, darling," Her Ladyship answered with a thin smile, turning away. "It's too late."

Jane lifted her eyes. "He's already been summoned, Your Lordship, for Mr Carson."

"I'll bring him up," Lady Sybil put in, also rising. "And I want to see Carson."

"I can sleep in my dressing room," His Lordship said, watching as his wife and daughter went to the door, followed by Anna. But then his eyes went to Jane and lingered for a moment. She caught the look, her own eyes widening. Her cheeks flushed. When he bent to sit again, she saw Mr Crawley frowning slightly at her. His chair stood closest to her, directly between herself and His Lordship, and she realised that Mr Crawley must have caught the exchange. She quickly looked down and released the doorknob, letting the door close as she resumed her place.

The family returned to their meal once again, but Jane frowned as she saw Mr Molesley go into the side-room and lean heavily against the wall. She moved quickly, drawing up beside him and speaking in an undertone.

"Mr Molesley?"

But he only shook his head and she saw that he was sweating.

"I'll fetch Mrs Hughes," Jane whispered, and she hurried out, skirting along the edge of the dining room. There was no one in the great hall, so she rushed downstairs, looking this way and that in a half-panic.

Mr Bates was coming along the hall.

"Have you seen Mrs Hughes?" Jane asked, breathless.

He took her in with a frown. "Aren't you serving?"

Jane nodded, pressing her lips together nervously as she looked back towards the sound of Mrs Patmore snapping a command in the kitchen.

"No, she hasn't come down," Anna answered, descending the stairs. "Everything is in disarray upstairs with Master Edward. Nanny's not well." She looked at Mr Bates. "Mrs Hughes wants to see you."

"Oh! Anna," Jane said, her eyes begging. "You'd better come, quick!"

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Mr Molesley. He's taken ill!"

"Oh no...!" Anna turned on the bottom step as Jane rushed towards her, and Mr Bates was not far behind.

"You go up," he said to Anna. "I'll find Mrs Hughes."

The two women rushed up the stairs. They slipped into the dining room at a stately pace, so as not to draw the family's attention. Going into the serving-room, they found Mr Molesley pressing his face into a wetted handkerchief and moaning.

"Mr Molesley," Anna hissed. "What's happened?" She glanced down at all the unused wines in the remaining decanters. "Haven't you taken that in yet?"

"I'm not well," he said with a moan and turned, leaning his weight on the serving table as he widened his eyes. "I'm not well at all!"

"First the children and Mr Carson, then Her Ladyship, and now him!" Jane said to Anna.

"Has anyone sent for Dr Clarkson?" Anna asked.

"Yes," Jane answered, eyeing the wavering Mr Molesley in some alarm. "Mrs Hughes telephoned him first thing when Mr Carson fell ill."

Anna jutted her chin towards Mr Molesley, taking charge. "Help him down to the servants' hall. The doctor can take a look at him, too, when he gets here."

Jane nodded, quickly ushering the poor man away. She glanced back, sending up a quick prayer that Anna would be able to manage alone, and then hurried—again drawing as little attention as possible—to get Mr Molesley downstairs.

* * *

Matthew lifted his glass to take another sip, draining it. Surely he hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen earlier between Robert and the new maid. Matthew glanced across at Mary to see if she'd noticed it, but she only looked down at her lap, uncharacteristically quiet. Her meal was largely untouched. He frowned.

"The Spanish 'flu has found its way to Yorkshire," Robert said heavily.

"And to Downton," Isobel agreed. "Dr Clarkson says he's got ten cases already."

Anna arrived at Robert's right with the decanter and began to fill his glass.

"Ah, I thought Molesley had joined the Temperance League," Robert joked, glancing up, but then he gave a slight start at the sight of Anna.

Anna moved to Violet's side and quickly refilled her glass. "I'm afraid he's been taken ill, my lord. I am sorry."

Everyone paused except Anna, who did her best to carry on as she moved to the next person.

"Molesley, too?" Robert exclaimed. "Good heavens, everyone's falling like ninepins."

Matthew glanced at Mary. There was an odd, dull look in her eyes and she was paler than usual.

"My dear?" he asked. When she didn't immediately respond, he set down his silverware and leaned towards her. "Mary?"

She looked up with a slight frown. "I am...tired. Please excuse me."

After a moment, she set her serviette down and rose a bit unsteadily. Robert stood as Matthew pushed his chair back and took up his stick, quickly rising to move towards her.

"My darling?" he asked when he reached her, his heart beginning to pound.  _Oh God, not her, too!_

But she only shook her head with a brief ghost of a smile and pulled her elbow gently from his grasp. "I'll just go have a lie down. You stay."

Anna hurried to open the door for Mary, and he watched his wife walk from the room, her head held high, but her back far too stiff. Swallowing, he returned to his seat.

Just as he and Robert had settled, Isobel suddenly rose.

"Well, I think I should go and help," she declared. Matthew and Robert pushed themselves to their feet again, and Isobel hurried from the room as Anna quickly opened the door a second time.

Matthew exchanged a worried glance with Robert, and then they both looked down at the still-seated Violet, the only other person who remained at the table with them.

Violet set down her glass, making no move to get up. "Wasn't there a masked ball in Paris when cholera broke out? Half the guests were dead before they left the ballroom."

"Thank you, Mama," Robert replied. "That's cheered us up no end."

* * *

Thomas came in from having a long, leisurely smoke out in the courtyard, and he paused on the bottom step when he caught sight of a hall boy standing in a doorway, seized by a coughing fit.

"Go to bed," Thomas commanded.

The hall boy looked up with another wracking cough. "If I do, there'll be no one on duty."

"I'm on duty. Go to bed."

The boy left, hauling himself wearily up the stairs.

Thomas heard a groan from the servants' hall and, frowning, poked his head into the room.

It was Mr Molesley, sitting at the table looking flushed and miserable, with Jane sitting beside him, her hand on his back.

"Where is everyone?" Thomas asked her. "What's going on around here? A repeat of the Black Plague?"

"It's the Spanish 'flu!" Jane answered in a hushed tone, as if lowering her voice could ward the sickness away. Mr Molesley dropped his head on to his arms with a moan and Thomas took a step back, regarding him warily.

"Has anyone called the doctor?" Thomas asked.

"Yes."

"Is there someone to let him in? Where is Mr Bates?"

Jane looked worried. "I don't know," she said. "He went looking for Mrs Hughes a while ago."

"I'll go up," Thomas said with a put-upon sigh.

"But you're not dressed," Jane protested, glancing him over.

"That hardly matters now, don't you think?" Thomas replied, and went up the stairs to make himself indispensable.

* * *

Thomas lurked in the shadows near the coat-closet, careful not to let anyone spot him while he waited for Dr Clarkson. There was movement along the gallery. Once, Thomas had even seen Mr Bates cross with an armful of clothing that included a gown and a pair of Master Edward's trousers, even though seeing to the ladies' and the young master's clothing wasn't normally the valet's job.

Lady Sybil was tending to everyone while Mrs Crawley bustled from room to room, looking important and telling Lady Sybil what to do from time to time. Thomas frowned. It seemed clear to him that Lady Sybil already knew what she was about—she was kind and clever—but she always followed Mrs Crawley's instructions, speaking softly and nodding. He could see that she was worried, though. He hoped the doctor arrived soon. What was keeping him so long?

There was a sound out on the drive and Thomas lifted his head. Glancing quickly around, he confirmed that there was no one coming to answer the door, so he tugged at his clothes, straightened, and lifted his chin. Time to go.

He stepped out confidently, went through into the foyer, and opened the front doors with a polite look of concern on his face, watching as Dr Clarkson pulled up and parked. The doctor leapt down from the car, bag in hand, and hurried up to the front door.

"Where are they?" the man asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. If he noticed that Thomas wasn't in livery, he didn't make a sign of it. Thomas snapped into authoritative action, nodding and gesturing inside.

"They're all upstairs, except for Lady Mary, sir."

When they emerged into the great hall, Lady Sybil was hurrying down the main staircase towards them.

"Oh, Dr Clarkson, I'm so glad you've come! I'm afraid half the house has fallen ill! Edward's got the worst of it right now, but Carson's been in bed since before dinner, and Mama and Mary are quite unwell, too."

While Lady Sybil was speaking, Mrs Crawley had appeared, coming from the direction of the bedrooms on the first floor.

"I'll see Edward first," Dr Clarkson said.

"No, the boy can wait," Mrs Crawley cut in, drawing up beside them. "I'm most worried about Mary. We'll have to watch her very carefully. Lady Grantham is with her now. There's...something you should know."

Dr Clarkson exchanged a glance with Lady Sybil, then gave a curt nod and the two of them followed Mrs Crawley back the way she had come, leaving Thomas to stand by himself and look for more ways to keep busy.

* * *

Robert and Matthew had retired to the library after dinner, as there were no menservants left to serve brandy and cigars, and Robert kept a small supply of both near his desk. The two men had settled down before the fire to enjoy a few minutes' peace away from the chaos in the rest of the house. Beyond the crackling of the flames, they could hear the occasional sounds of closing doors and muffled conversation, but as no one had come to fetch either of them, it seemed wisest to take refuge in the library and stay out of everyone's way.

"We'll both be sleeping alone tonight, I expect," Robert observed.

"Why?" Matthew asked with a frown.

Robert raised an eyebrow and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. "I forget: you and Mary have been married for several years, but you've spent most of that time apart." He chuckled. "You haven't learned yet what a terrible inconvenience it is to be deprived of sleep because your bedfellow is tossing and coughing the whole night long. Not to mention the joy of possibly becoming sick yourself. Word to the wise: maintain a polite distance until you both are perfectly well. Otherwise, you'll only prolong the discomfort."

Matthew laughed softly. "I suppose there  _is_  something to be said for always keeping the bed in the dressing room made up. I never knew my father to use his. It only occasionally saw use when we had guests to stay."

Robert smiled, and they smoked in silence a while longer.

"So," Robert said finally, rolling his cigar in its tray to knock off a bit of ash. There was only one swallow of brandy left in his tumbler; he'd procrastinated long enough. "What's this business with Branson?"

Matthew's eyes widened and Robert took a satisfied draw on his cigar, slowly exhaling smoke as he watched Matthew give a short laugh and shift, his eyes flickering away and down before he met Robert's gaze again.

"It's...complicated," Matthew replied.

"We have time," Robert said, his eyes narrowing.

Matthew's eyes flickered to the door. Robert watched him shift in his seat again.

"How did you find out about it?" Matthew asked carefully, tapping off ash before rolling his cigar between his fingers and examining it with unnecessary interest.

"Carson told me, before he retired."

Matthew nodded. "And...what did he tell you?"

"Only that he'd confronted Branson about it and the man declined to answer, citing your privacy." Robert frowned. "You're not in some sort of trouble, are you?"

Matthew laughed and shook his head. "No, quite the opposite." He drew on his cigar, then exhaled as he set it down in the tray. "I've been offered a position."

Robert gave a slow nod, smiling. Cora would be pleased at this news. He tilted his head in question. "But what does that have to do with Branson? You're not planning to poach my chauffeur, are you?" Robert glanced down at Matthew's legs. "I thought you would be able to drive yourself, soon enough."

"Oh, I will," Matthew said with a smile. "I don't need a driver." He paused. "But I do need...a partner."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "A partner? I don't follow."

Matthew winced slightly and cleared his throat. "I'd hoped to avoid this conversation until I was ready to have it."

Robert glared at him. "We're barely having it as it is. I don't find all this evasion the least bit amusing. Branson is my employee. Thus, it concerns me. Out with it!"

Matthew regarded him a moment before finally relenting with a sigh. "Murray has offered us both a position with his firm, evaluating the financial health and potential profitability of estates such as Downton," he answered, waving his hand slightly to take in their surroundings. Matthew looked down at the table with a shrug. "He was impressed by my proposals, apparently, and he has clients in need of such services."

Robert sat back with a frown, lifting his chin as he took this in. This cast the Grantham Estate's situation in something of a different light, but he pushed that thought aside and looked at Matthew. "And what could this possibly have to do with Branson?"

Matthew pressed his lips together, raising his eyebrows as he shrugged. "I relied upon Branson a great deal while we were out evaluating the farms. He has a surprising knowledge of agricultural techniques and animal husbandry." Matthew picked up his brandy. "Not to mention a keen awareness of the politics of a situation." He gave a wry, self-deprecating chuckle. "A useful skill, that."

Robert regarded him in frowning silence, and Matthew's smile fell away. He finished the last of his drink and carefully set down the empty tumbler.

"So you  _are_  planning to poach Branson," Robert concluded.

Matthew grimaced. "I wasn't thinking of it in those terms, but I suppose that yes, I am. He hasn't given me an answer yet, though. Perhaps it'll come to nothing."

Robert narrowed his eyes. "I seriously doubt that. The man is ambitious."

Matthew's eyebrows rose again and he gave a short nod of acknowledgement, looking away. It seemed to Robert as though there was a new note of humour in Matthew's bearing and it made Robert scowl. He'd thought Matthew better bred than this: to take away an employee without so much as a by-your-leave or even an apology for the inconvenience!

Matthew seemed to catch Robert's rising ire and quickly sobered, leaning forward.

"Look, I'm sorry about this, sir. I hadn't wanted to approach you until I had a definite answer from him, and I presume that he had a similar reluctance. We aren't purposely being secretive—" Robert's frown deepened at the use of 'we', so Matthew straightened, sitting back in his chair with a frown of his own. "—rather, just trying to avoid making waves until absolutely necessary."

"And how am I to replace a chauffeur with so little notice? Will he be gone from service the same day he accepts your offer?"

"No, no." Matthew put out a hand. "Murray said he won't be ready with our first client for a few more weeks. He mentioned some business he had to straighten out in the interim, so there should be plenty of time for you to find a new man."

Robert shifted, still quite put out. He laid down his cigar and stood, making quick work of finishing his brandy. "Come, let's see how everyone is faring."

Turning on his heel, he strode to the door and opened it, waiting in polite, strained silence for Matthew to push himself to his feet, gather his stick, and walk the length of the room. They emerged into the great hall, still not speaking.

* * *

"Thank you for taking charge," Jane said to Anna, gathering up the crystal goblets and setting them on a tray. "I didn't know what to do!"

Anna picked up two plates and smiled across the table at her. "It's been a strange evening. You did well, all things considered. You're settling in quite well here, you know."

Jane hummed and smiled and continued gathering up the glasses, a slight bounce in her step.

"You look very chipper," Anna observed.

"I am. I heard this afternoon that my son's got into Ripon Grammar—oh, Lady Edith's forgotten her shawl."

"I'll see that it is returned to her. Put it at the bottom of the stairs."

Jane obeyed, going out of the room as she folded the garment. Down in the servants' hall, she left the shawl on the small table beside the banister and hurried back up the stairs. As she crossed the great hall, Mr Crawley and Lord Grantham came out of the library and Jane couldn't help it—she smiled.

His Lordship's expression softened and he smiled back, holding her gaze as she crossed the room. When she moved past him, however, she saw Mr Crawley glancing from her towards His Lordship with a puzzled frown.

Quickly lowering her gaze, she hurried into the dining room, letting out a sigh of relief when the door closed behind her. She drew in a deep breath and returned to helping Anna clear away the soiled dishes.

* * *

Matthew frowned at Robert, unsettled. He  _had_  seen something this time, he was sure of it, but Robert was carrying on as though nothing had happened. It was perfectly acceptable for Robert to display ease with Carson or Bates, but what was this business with the new maid?

Matthew's foot caught on the edge of the carpet and he stumbled, then quickly righted himself and scowled down at his feet.  _Damn stick_.

"I'm ready to leave," Violet announced, her own stick tapping the floor with an authoritative note as she crossed the great hall.

Robert glanced around.

"I'll tell Branson," Matthew said quickly.

"It doesn't feel proper, but... Thank you," Robert replied, shooting him a grateful look. Turning to Violet, Robert said, "If you'll just wait a moment, Mama, I'll fetch your coat."

Matthew turned to go.

"Matthew," Violet said, and he looked back. "Mary's not well, no matter what she says. Don't let her overexert herself."

Swallowing down a dart of fear, Matthew nodded. "I will." He smiled wryly. "Insofar as I can stop her doing anything."

Violet didn't smile, but there was a light of approval in her eyes. Robert emerged from the coat-closet and Matthew walked off as quickly as he could, despite the ache in his legs, as worry for Mary crept further round his heart.

 


	31. Chapter 31

_31_

Tom looked up from his newspaper with a sigh of relief when Matthew appeared in the doorway of the garage.

"Good evening," Matthew said.

"Good evening," Tom replied affably.

"Her Ladyship is ready to return to the Dower House."

Tom raised his eyebrows, folding the newspaper and laying it down on a nearby bench. "And they sent you to fetch me? They  _must_  be desperate."

Matthew gave a pained smile. "I volunteered. It's been rather a chop and change evening, with both Carson and Molesley down. It's all left to Bates and Mrs Hughes to manage in the chaos."

"Well, they're cool heads. They'll keep it sorted," Tom replied. He shrugged on his uniform jacket and began to do up the buttons. "How is Lady Mary? I heard she's taken ill, too."

Matthew frowned. "She's resting." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his legs and pushing a hand into his pocket. "I hear you've been interrogated. I'm sorry about that."

Tom smirked. "I take it you have been, too."

Matthew chuckled and nodded, then looked away with a frown. "I'm not sure how I could have navigated this better," he said. "It didn't seem right to tell His Lordship before we had settled on a path."

Tom reached through the driver's-side window of the car and retrieved his chauffeur's cap. "Well, for one thing, you shouldn't have let yourself be seen being friendly with me." He tugged his cap on. "Mr Carson seems to think you're in desperate need of a mate."

Matthew laughed and looked down with a nod. "He's not far wrong, there. I haven't really got anyone, outside the family, that is. There are a few university friends back in Manchester, but many of them..." Matthew frowned, trailing off.

Tom nodded and pushed his hands into his pockets, remaining quiet a moment. Then he briefly jutted out his chin. "So is it true? Are you hiring me for my skills or for companionship?"

"Both, to be honest." Matthew chuckled, straightening up and pushing off from the door. "If I didn't enjoy your company, I wouldn't have bothered entertaining Murray's offer at all. The prospect of running up against lords and land agents by myself doesn't hold much appeal." Tom smiled as Matthew continued. "And I'm not hiring you. Murray's hiring us both."

"But only on your say-so," Tom answered. "He wouldn't give two shakes about me if you weren't pulling so hard on my behalf. I'm surprised he offered me a position at all."

"The world is changing," Matthew answered. "You're a good man, and worth the effort." He sighed. "I know I said you had time to respond, but the...interrogations rather change things." He raised his eyebrows. "So have you decided yet?"

Tom looked down with a soft laugh.

"What is it?" Matthew asked.

Tom gave him a lopsided smirk. "It's been just strange, after two years of  _asking_  that question, to find myself required to answer it."

Matthew smiled and nodded.

Growing serious, Tom fixed Matthew in a direct look. "I'll be honest: it's not what I'd planned. I just received a job offer from  _The_   _Irish Times_ , out of Dublin." He gave a slightly apologetic tilt of his head. "I've been applying for positions for several months now, so I'd be ready when Sybil made her decision."

Matthew smiled. "It seems you expected her to say yes."

Tom chuckled softly. "I hoped." He sobered and his brows pulled down. "If I accept your offer, it would mean waiting even longer to marry her. And it would mean not returning to Ireland anytime soon, most likely. I wouldn't be able to help in the fight for independence. So how is it a better offer?"

Matthew drew in a breath through his nose and pressed his lips together, nodding. He tilted his head slightly and arched one eyebrow. "Well, aside from likely providing a better paycheque—which I know isn't a sufficient argument, and I admire you for that—it's arguably better for Sybil. You'd be able to provide her with more stability. You'd allow her to be on equal footing with you, rather than wholly dependent upon you, because you wouldn't be separating her from her family and surrounding her with strangers who, let's be honest, probably won't take too kindly to her. Finally, and possibly most importantly, you have a better chance of winning the rest of the family over, which can only be a good thing in the long term."

Tom kept his expression firm and unmoved, despite grudgingly acknowledging to himself that Matthew had a point.

Matthew lifted his chin, his voice quieting. "And you might find yourself with more opportunity to fight for Irish independence than you realise. You'll be invited into the homes of men who can influence policy. If you present a compelling example of an intelligent, well-spoken Irishman, you could go a long way towards challenging the status quo."

"There are plenty of intelligent, well-spoken Irishmen!" Tom exclaimed, crossing his arms and scowling. "Look at how well  _they've_  been listened to."

Matthew put up a hand, briefly looking down with a smile. " _I_  know that, Tom. But how many of them have sat down to a meal with an English lord?"

"Most of us would just as soon put a bomb under the lot of you," Tom growled.

Matthew nodded. "And likewise, most upper-class Englishmen wouldn't let you come within a hundred feet for fear of it." He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Tom flexed his jaw and looked aside. He wasn't much inclined to sit at table with the same men who had ordered so many atrocities, and he recoiled from the idea of helping such men to prop up their failing estates and thus preserve the decaying system that oppressed the Irish people. If word got out that he'd made a habit of it, marrying Sybil would be the least cause anyone would have for calling him a turncoat. But to find himself in a position to know the private concerns of men in power, such that they would be asking him for advice? There was something undeniably appealing in it. Perhaps Matthew had a point here, too: could the right word in the right ear have a far-reaching effect? It was both an intriguing and a daunting prospect.

"Would I even be allowed to speak?" Tom asked. "Frankly, I'm surprised Mr Murray would agree to send a working-class paddy into the homes of his high and mighty clients."

Matthew smiled slightly. "He doesn't know you're Irish. Or, at present, a chauffeur."

Tom raised his eyebrows, then gave a short laugh and glanced away with a brief, disbelieving shake of his head, before returning his gaze to Matthew.

"You've got balls, I'll give you that."

Matthew chuckled. "Just because I'm part of the system doesn't mean I'm in favour of it."

Tom looked down, considering. With Matthew beside him at table, Tom thought he might be able to speak and be heard. Matthew was an uncommon sort, but he wasn't the only decent Englishman—

Tom closed his eyes. God, his mates back home would have his head if they heard him voicing such thoughts.

He opened his eyes. "I'd like to think on your offer for one more night," he answered.

Matthew nodded. "Very well. Come find me when you've made your decision."

"I will. Good night."

"Good night," Matthew replied, turning away. Then he paused and turned back. "Any message for Sybil?"

Tom grinned. "She's not to neglect herself, taking care of everyone else."

Matthew smiled. "I'll tell her."

He stepped back out into the darkness, the sharp report of his stick tapping the ground amidst his fading footfalls. After a minute of frowning at nothing, Tom sighed and pushed the garage door all the way open, latching it against the post, then went back inside to start the car.

* * *

"I'll take you to Mr Carson now," Mrs Hughes said to Dr Clarkson, as they stepped out of Her Ladyship's bedroom. "And then to see Mr Molesley in the servants' hall."

Robert approached. "Dr Clarkson. You're kind to come. How are they?"

Edward, in the nursery a few doors down, let out a wail just then, and Dr Clarkson gave Robert a chagrined look.

"Not too bad, I'd say. The boy's temperature is still high, but not dangerously so. Lady Grantham's and Lady Mary's are still climbing. They'll need some nursing for a day or two."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Robert replied, smiling slightly. "Sybil is a professional. Let's leave them to get some rest."

"I gave Edward some more aspirin and cinnamon in milk," Isobel said, joining them. "Tomorrow, we could try him with some salt of quinine."

Dr Clarkson gave a nod.

"Is it the 'flu?" Robert asked, worry creasing his features. "Is it serious?"

Dr Clarkson gave a heavy sigh. "It's a strange strain and a cruel one. Normally, children and the old are the most vulnerable, but this seems to strike at young adults who should be able to throw it off..."

Isobel nodded. "And for Mary, it is particularly worrisome—"

"Why?" Robert asked with a frown.

Dr Clarkson cleared his throat in a decisive fashion and Isobel straightened, exchanging a quick look with him.

"I'd better go to Carson," the doctor said.

"I'll come, too," Isobel announced. Dr Clarkson gave Mrs Hughes a put-upon look as they turned to go.

* * *

Robert stepped out into the hall in his dressing gown, looking for his valet, then sighed. Bates must have just gone down. Robert turned to go back into his room, but he pulled up short when Jane stepped out of Cora's bedroom at just that moment.

"Oh, did you want Mr Bates, my lord?"

Robert looked aside. "I forgot to say I want to be woken early."

"Well, I can tell him that." Jane replied. Robert nodded and started to turn away. "Freddie got into Ripon Grammar," she continued with a bright smile, her eyes alight. "So whatever you said, it worked."

"Marvellous," Robert answered, flashing her a brief smile. "Some good news at last." He looked back down.

After a moment, Jane said softly, "I hate to hear you talk like that."

Robert raised his eyes, staring at her in surprise, and then he grimaced and looked back down. "I'm sorry. That was selfish of me. To spoil your happy moment."

But Jane only smiled. "You need never say sorry to me... How are you? Really?"

It had been so long since someone had asked him that question that he was taken aback. So long since anyone had even noticed, really. He looked at Jane and saw that she took a genuine interest.

"Since you ask, I'm wretched. My son and wife and eldest daughter and grandchildren are miserably sick. My youngest daughter is threatening some mad scheme that will take her away from us, and I suspect I won't be able to stop her, and that if I try, she'll only come up with something worse. My household is in upheaval, with people I trust turning out not to be—well, never mind that." He drew in a deep breath and looked down again, weary under the weight of it all. "Suffice it to say, it's not been the best of days."

"I wish you knew how much I want to help," Jane said, looking kindly up at him. "In any way."

He paused, a sudden, mad hope— "Do you?"

Jane swallowed, straightening slightly, and pressed her lips together in resolution. "I think you know I do," she finally answered, her voice soft.

He pushed aside the warning pressure, hungry for another's touch, for a moment to feel as though he were just a man, not a master. To be heard, to be known, to not have to face the night alone—

Trembling slightly, he held out his hand, and she took it before he could feel a fool. With relief, he drew her inside the room and pulled the door closed.

* * *

"Ungghh!" Mary growled tiredly into her pillow. She was lying on her side, curled up in a ball, glaring at Sybil. "You  _told_  him?"

"He's being so...so stubborn!" Sybil threw a hand up in frustration and looked away.

Mary sighed. "Honestly, Sybil, what did you expect?"

Sybil leaned over the bedside table and began gathering up the empty glass of milk and the teaspoon, putting them on the tray. "That we could discuss it, like two reasonable adults." She found the cap for the cinnamon and firmly sealed the jar. "I'm tempted to just have Tom come in and we'll give Papa the alternative!"

Mary half-sat up, grimacing. "You wouldn't! Sybil, consider!"

"We've waited for more than two  _years_ , Mary," Sybil replied, her voice rising as she straightened. "Why should we wait for longer just because Mama and Papa might be  _put out?_ "

"You're being a fool," Mary sighed. Lowering herself back down with a wince, she said, "If you tell everyone about Tom now, there is  _no_  chance Papa will pay for your schooling. Your only hope is to appeal to his better nature." Her eyes dulled and she closed them. "I don't want to quarrel right now."

Sybil's manner immediately changed and she sat down on the edge of the bed beside Mary, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, my dear, of course you're right. I'm just so frustrated, I want to...to  _scream_. But I'll wait. Of course now is not the moment to tell everyone about Tom."

The bedroom door opened at the tail end of her words and Sybil looked up with wide eyes, getting to her feet, but it was only Matthew. His initial smile quickly changed to a frown as he took in Mary's prone form.

"How is she?" he asked Sybil, who bent to pick up the tray.

"I'm  _fine_ ," Mary insisted, twisting to look at him as he came round the bed. "I'm just tired. It's a little stomach upset. It's nothing."

Matthew's eyes shifted to Sybil's and she gave Mary an unimpressed glance.

"She has a slight temperature," Sybil answered, passing him as she walked to the door.

"Tom said you're not to neglect yourself, tending to everyone else," Matthew said, giving her a small smile.

Sybil rolled her eyes, but smiled back as she continued walking.

"Another 'little stomach upset'?" Matthew asked Mary in a worried tone. He sat down beside her on the bed. "You've had symptoms of this sort nearly every day for the past two weeks."

Sybil stopped, giving Mary a sharp glance.

"How long have you felt like this?" Sybil asked.

"Like  _this?_ " Mary echoed tiredly. "An hour or two. I haven't the energy to endure the third degree. I would like to sleep."

Sybil shifted the tray to one hand and put her other hand on the door. "I'll be back in a short while to check on you." After a final glance at Matthew, she went out and pulled the door closed with a quiet click.

Matthew looked down at Mary for a long moment, stroking her arm. "How are you darling, really?"

Mary sighed and drew her legs up slightly. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will." Matthew gave her a brief, encouraging smile.

"How are you?" she asked, her hand moving lightly along his leg. "Where have you been?"

"I'm well. I've been to see Tom." Matthew paused.

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Did he give you an answer?"

"Not yet. He's gotten another offer, with a newspaper in Dublin. He's still undecided."

Mary frowned.

"Good night, my love," Matthew said, smiling. "I'll sleep in my dressing room tonight." She nodded, so he squeezed her shoulder and made to rise, but she quickly stayed him with a firm press on his thigh.

"Wait," she said. He settled again, a slight frown in his features.

"Yes?"

"It's Sybil..." Mary sighed. "Papa won't allow her to pursue her mad scheme, so she's threatening to throw it in and just tell everyone about Tom." Mary closed her eyes and swallowed. "You must tell Tom not to let her go through with it. Someone must talk some sense into her." Drawing in a deep breath, Mary opened her eyes again. "What I can't bear is the thought of Sybil waking up in a Dublin slum, away from everything she knows."

Matthew nodded. "I know. I don't think he wants that, either."

"But it won't matter what he wants if Papa throws them out," Mary protested, twisting slightly to look at Matthew with wide eyes, her grip on his thigh tightening.

His frown deepened. He'd never known Mary to beg before.

 _Damn this sickness_ , he thought, and bent down to kiss her cheek, embracing her gently as he did. When he pulled away and sat up again, he ran a hand in soothing circles over her back and watched, pleased, as her eyes drifted closed.

"I'll see what I can do," Matthew said. "But you should know that although I support the terms you established for them, my offer to him will still stand, even if they make their engagement public."

Mary sighed and leaned into his massage, her eyes still closed. "As long as she stays nearby."

"I agree."

Matthew sat for a few minutes, watching Mary drift further, and she finally gave a soft, contented moan, her shoulders relaxing.

"Good night, darling," he whispered.

She sighed quietly in response, so he stood up carefully and went into his dressing room, closing the door behind him. No one was there this evening, of course. Matthew began his nightly routine, loosening his stiff collar and tossing it aside. His back twinged when he straightened up, making him wince and lean heavily on his stick a moment. Sitting twisted on the bed beside Mary hadn't been a very comfortable position, and his feet and legs ached after the long day.

He decided to sit for a short while before moving into the bathroom. Settling into the armchair, he laid his stick against his leg, finished unbuttoning his collar, and closed his eyes. He realised he was tense, a swirl of vague, half-formed worries in his gut. Mary hadn't been well for a while, but it had seemed such a small, intermittent thing that he hadn't pressed her on it. She would feel out of sorts, and then later she'd be alert and passionate and wholly herself again. But with the Spanish 'flu now sweeping the countryside—

Matthew fought the sudden, unexpected rise of tears in his eyes, briefly covering his face with his hands. He felt his mouth pulling down and he drew in a deep breath, exhaled.

"Lord...!" he protested, dropping his hands to the armrests. He looked up at the ceiling. "After everything...now this? When will we be able to rest?"

_Trust Me._

Matthew frowned down at the floor. "I don't like it when You say that," he sighed. "It means I'm not going to like whatever happens next."

There was a sense of a chuckle.  _And yet...here you are. I've brought you this far. I'm not going to forsake you now._

Matthew dropped his head back, slouching down a bit, and closed his eyes.

"What should I do about Sybil?"

 _Talk with Robert_.

Matthew frowned. "But what can I say? And we're not exactly on the best of terms at the moment."

_Whose fault is that?_

Matthew gave an annoyed growl. "I  _thought_  I was doing the right thing."

_I don't fault your intentions, but you need to make this right. Go. Humble yourself._

"Now?"

_Now._

Matthew sighed, then ran his hands down his face before straightening up in the chair. Normally, he wouldn't consider intruding upon Robert's privacy after the family had retired, but it was still early in the evening and with everything going on, Matthew suspected that Robert might still be awake.

_Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath..._

"All right," Matthew replied, annoyed, and pushed himself to his feet. The thought of ascending the stairs made him grimace. He went out into the hall. There was no one in sight, but he heard footsteps on the floor above. Bracing himself, he strode towards the stairs.

* * *

Robert broke the kiss, his heart pounding. He felt so  _alive_.

"If you only knew how much I've longed for this," he gasped.

"Have you, really?" Jane asked. "Because I have. I know it should feel wrong, but it doesn't. Not to me."

He let out a nervous, relieved laugh. "Right or wrong, by God, it feels free. Free of the war, free of duty, free of my life. I've lived so long according to my duty and now I find myself constantly wondering why!"

He pulled her close and met her lips again, thrilling as she met him and matched his every impulse. Her fingers stroked his hair and his head spun to feel so close, so  _in tune_ , with this strange, kind, beautiful woman—

There was a sharp rap on the door and they broke apart.

"Who is it?" Robert answered, pushing her behind the door and opening it in one smooth motion. He was proud of his previously-untested skill until Bates waited a heartbeat too long to answer, as if the man sensed that something was off.

 _Too quickly! I opened the door to quickly!_  Robert thought in a half-panic.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Bates said, an odd suspicion still in his eyes despite the bland expression on his face. "We never settled the time you wanted to be woken."

"Early, I think, with everyone ill. Seven." Robert glanced down. "I'll breakfast at half past."

Bates looked as if he expected something more, but when Robert didn't continue, Bates said, "Very good, my lord. Good night."

The valet turned away and Robert shut the door, his heart heavy.

Jane watched him, frozen in place.

Robert let the dream go, seeing it for what it was: the promise of an escape that could never be. He closed his eyes a moment, then turned towards her.

"This isn't fair," he said, weary again. "I'm placing you in an impossible situation."

"I want to be with you," Jane said, approaching him slowly. She reached up to hold his face. "Let me."

But he stepped back, ashes in his mouth and lead in his heart, and gently lowered her hands with a slight shake of his head.

"I see," Jane said, her gaze falling. Her mouth pulled down at the sides, her eyes wide with hurt. "You don't want me now."

He drew her hand against his chest, desperate not to leave her wounded. This wasn't her fault, it was his, all his. "I want you with every fibre of my being. But it isn't fair to you, it isn't fair to anyone. I wish I were different, I wish everything were different."

Jane looked at his chest and made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. Then, fixing a sad smile on her face, she cupped his hands with her own.

"I don't want you different," she said, and fixed him in her honest gaze. "I like you the way you are."

He released a sigh, warmed, grateful for her gracious reply. "Thank you for that. I will cherish it. Truly."

She smiled sadly, lifted up on her toes, a good-bye kiss... But he only set her aside, gently, reluctantly, and moved to open the door behind her. He went out and looked up and down the passage. There was no one in sight.

He stepped back inside and looked at her. She seemed so small there in the corner behind the door, staring up at him. Publicly, he would lose nothing by this, but if she were seen...

Oh, how terribly he regretted doing this to her! She had been so kind, to listen to him each time he had unburdened himself. He didn't know why he'd done it, except that whenever he felt at his lowest, she had been there. She hadn't hunted him, she'd only been going about her duties, but he'd allowed himself a weakness, and had toyed with her heart, and it had come to this, as it most likely would. She hadn't deserved it. She was a good woman, just doing her best to make a living after the death of her husband in the war. Robert's heart broke as he watched her go to the door, brace herself, and step outside.

He felt ill, allowing her to go without a word.

She gave a small cry of surprise, frozen in the doorway, and his head snapped up.  _What the devil—?_

She looked back at him with wide, desperate eyes, betrayal, forgiveness—

"Go," he said in a low tone, stepping out between her and whoever it was—

Matthew stood outside in the hall with a dark, accusing expression.

Robert stiffened, his nostrils flaring as he set his jaw. He did not turn to ensure Jane had left; he heard her receding footsteps and he remained planted between her and Matthew. Matthew never came upstairs! What could possibly have brought him up here at this hour? Surely not Bates—no. It must just be some awful coincidence...

Matthew approached slowly, his stick tapping the rug in a kind of heavy march tempo. When he was near he spoke, his words soft and his eyes hard. "I'm sorry to bother you," he said, "but I came up to apologise for speaking to Branson before I spoke to you. I should have at least given you the courtesy of informing you first."

Robert gave a short nod and they regarded one another in tense silence for a long moment.

"She's  _ill_ , Robert," Matthew said.

Robert looked away. He did not have to enquire whom Matthew meant. He did not owe Matthew an explanation, but:

"Nothing happened. Truly. What you saw was the beginning and the end of it."

Matthew's gaze flickered beyond Robert and then returned to him.

"It is not for me to have an opinion," Matthew said finally, turning away. "I'm sorry for my behaviour earlier. Good night."

"Good night," Robert replied, but he only released his pent-up breath after Matthew had disappeared back down the stairs.

* * *

Sybil stepped out into the cool morning air and rubbed her upper arms. She needed to talk to someone and she ached to feel Tom's embrace. She'd shared an early breakfast with Papa and Matthew, but they had been strangely stiff and distant this morning. They were probably worried about Mama and Mary. It hadn't seemed the right moment to try to talk to her Papa again then, even though she suspected Matthew would have supported her if she did.

As she walked down the path to the garage, she wondered how angry Papa was with her about her medical school plans. He had barely even looked at her this morning. If he refused to allow her to go, she would tell everyone about Tom. Why shouldn't she? There was nothing to keep her here. She was ready for something new.

Tom had thrown open the garage door and driven the car out into the courtyard. He was dressed in beige canvas coveralls and he straightened up with a thick pad on his hand, sloshing soapy water over the boot and back trim of the car.

She stopped a safe distance away, happy to watch him work until he noticed her. When he did, his face broke into a wide grin.

"Good morning," he said, water dripping off the pad. He took her in with a raised eyebrow and she glanced down at herself, recalling that she'd donned her old nursing uniform.

"It's cleaner and safer, and some people find it comforting," she explained, and he nodded. She smiled. "Good morning."

She took a tentative step forward and he held the pad away from himself, allowing her to come close for a brief kiss. She saw his eyes flicker past her as she neared, but she didn't give a fig whether anyone saw them. She wanted his touch, even if just for a moment.

"Are you all right?" he asked with a slight frown, as she stepped back. "You're a little pale. Have you slept?"

Sybil gave him a look. "I'm  _fine_." When his frown intensified, she shrugged. "I slept. I rose early to check on everyone." She stepped back with a reassuring smile, allowing him to return to his work.

"How are they all?" he asked, sloshing more water on the car.

She clasped her hands with a sigh. "Mary's worse. Much worse." Sybil frowned. "It's moving so quickly... Mama's not far behind. Mrs Hughes has been tending Edward herself—he's miserable, but he's been in the bath to bring his temperature down, so Isobel hopes that will help. O'Brien's been with Mama all night, and I don't think Anna's slept a wink, tending to Mary." Sybil's mouth pulled down. "Nanny seems to be all right, just weak and tired, and Carson, too. There are two more maids and a hall boy down with the 'flu. It's breaking out all over the village! Dr Clarkson had to leave and I know I should be up there, but—"

Her voice broke, surprising her, and she quickly wiped at her face. Tom left the pad on the hood and came up to her.

"I wish I could hold you," he said, glancing down at himself with a grimace. "If I'd known you were coming—"

Sybil didn't care how wet his front was. She promptly walked into his arms and sank against him, trembling.

He embraced her, tentatively at first, and then with more assurance. After a moment, she felt him chuckle.

"If you're going to fall to pieces over this, are you sure you're suited to being a physician?"

Sybil pushed back to glare up at him. "I'm not fall—"

But his hands came up to cup the sides of her face and he kissed her for long enough to make her forget why she was angry with him.

He smiled when he pulled back. "I was just teasing. Never let the fact that you care too much discourage you. I'd be concerned if you  _didn't_  care." His thumbs stroked her cheeks and she closed her eyes with a sigh.

"It seems like everyone's falling ill and I feel so  _powerless!_ " she said, when he finally dropped his hands. "I can give them cinnamon in milk and whatnot, but if they can't keep it down—" She pressed her lips together and looked away. "Dr Clarkson can't offer much more. He says no one understands this disease yet, not really, and all we can do is  _wait_."

Tom nodded, frowning, but he offered no words of comfort. After a moment, he returned to the car and took up the pad again.

"So you won't stop me?" she asked.

"No," he answered, continuing his work.

"Does that mean you plan to accept Matthew's offer? You'll give up your dreams?"

He gave her a quick smile as he moved. "I'm not giving up my dreams, not if you're with me."

She softened and shifted her stance, crossing her arms. "Mary thinks that my only hope of convincing Papa to pay my way is if we don't tell him about us yet."

Tom paused with a sigh, his padded hand on the hood. "She's right."

"So the only reason we have to wait is my schooling?" Sybil confirmed. "You'd wait for me?"

"We don't know if you'll be accepted," Tom answered. "But assuming you are...yes. I've waited this long. I can wait another year. Once you're in, if you're getting good marks, your father won't want to lose face by pulling you out. People would assume it was about the money, because what other reason could it be if he'd already given you his approval?"

"And by then, you'll be respectable," Sybil replied, smirking.

He grinned back. "I already am respectable."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think your father will ever be able to swallow having a former chauffeur and a Mick as a son-in-law, no matter how 'respectable' I become," Tom said in a sour tone, looking away.

Sybil stepped closer as he went round the car. "I'll try to talk to Papa again, but if he doesn't agree to support me, we should make our announcement."

Tom nodded. "Despite what your sister said, I don't think Matthew is the sort to retract his offer if we did. But I shouldn't like to put him in that position. He's a good man, and he's right: it's better for you."

Sybil frowned. "Don't make this about me. I don't want to be blamed if it doesn't work out. You should make this choice because  _you_  want to."

"I'm intrigued by his offer, I'll admit," Tom said. "But this is the wise decision, the reversible one. If it doesn't work out, I'll find a job as a journalist and give my notice. Then we can make our announcement, marry, and be out of here in short order."

"And I'll find a nursing job in Dublin," Sybil agreed.

"Will anyone hire you as a nurse if you're married?" Tom asked.

Sybil frowned. "That was just a V.A.D. restriction. Cousin Isobel was a married nurse."

"But Matthew's father was a doctor, wasn't he? I would imagine that he had some influence there," Tom answered. At Sybil's continuing look of unhappiness, he paused and shrugged. "Talk with Mrs Crawley. Find out if there are obstacles you need to think about."

Sybil nodded. "And I would imagine that the rules for a woman doctor are different."

Tom gave a short laugh. "Yes. But the reality is that you still need to consider how you can be a wife, a mother,  _and_  a doctor all at once." His expression softened and he took a step closer to her. "I'm not opposed to you pursuing your dreams, but all dreams require sacrifices." He gestured with the pad. "I'm putting my dream of working for Irish independence on hold, for as long as necessary. I don't want to force you to choose between me and medicine, between our family and your profession, but there might come a day when you  _will_  have to choose, and you need to weigh that in the balance of all your plans. Because—" He stepped close to her now. "—if you're not prepared to choose me, and any children we might have, over being a doctor, or even a nurse, you should call this off now. Don't keep me on the hook unless you mean to follow through with it. All the way. Because what we create together is more important than just my dreams or just your dreams."

Sybil regarded him with wide eyes, then swallowed and nodded. "Yes," she answered softly. "I know. I know how much you're giving up to be with me. I'm not treating that lightly." Licking her lips, she glanced down, exhaled, and then straightened, giving him a direct look. "If it comes to it, I will choose you—our family—over any work." She touched his cheek, frowning slightly as she smiled up at him. "Because what will it matter if I become the world's best doctor but I have lost my heart?"

Tom gave a stuttering sigh of relief and smiled, looking down. She lowered her hand.

"Just—" He raised his eyes to hers. "Promise me that you won't ask me to wait beyond a year, or two at the outside. I don't want to wait until you finish medical school to marry."

"Goodness, of course not!" Sybil exclaimed. "That could be  _several_  years away. I must speak to Dr Clarkson about preparing for the entrance exams and how best to put together my application. He can give us a better sense of the timing."

"So we're decided?" Tom asked.

She smiled, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. "Thoroughly. Now kiss me. I must get back."

He acquiesced without the slightest protest.

* * *

"Oh no, she's bleeding again!" Anna exclaimed as she neared, and she pulled up short with the tray Isobel had requested.

Isobel gave a start and looked up, grateful at the sight of the coffee pot. She didn't normally take coffee in the afternoon, but she was so very tired, having gotten little sleep during the night. She turned to see what Anna meant.

Mary, unconscious and sweating profusely, made a weak movement as blood trickled from her nostrils. Isobel quickly stood and wiped away the blood with a towel, then dampened a fresh one and laid it across Mary's brow.

Anna set down the tray and began moving about, replacing the soiled towels, fetching a new bowl of cool water, pressing a cup of coffee into Isobel's hand. While Isobel straightened and took a grateful sip, Anna adjusted the sheets and gently mopped Mary's face and neck.

"When will this stop?" Anna whispered, pressing her lips together as she stood back.

"I don't know," Isobel answered wearily. "All we can do is wait and hope."

Mary gave a weak moan, turning towards the sounds, her brow furrowing, and both women moved to her side. Isobel set down her mug and bent to refresh the cool cloth on Mary's forehead while Anna wiped up fresh rivulets of blood.

"Her Ladyship's just taken a turn," Anna murmured, glancing at Isobel, "but Lady Mary is the worst now. She's fading so quickly! Do you think it's because..." She drifted off, swallowing, and looked at Mary with a worried expression.

"It's possible," Isobel answered, carefully lowering herself back down into the chair beside the bed. "Dr Clarkson said that expectant mothers seem to have the hardest time of it. He's lost two in the village already. I can't bear to tell Matthew..."

Her shoulders sagged and Anna gestured to the coffee with the barest of smiles. Giving the maid a grateful nod, Isobel lifted the cup, taking a sip as she closed her eyes.

"Where is Mr Matthew?" Anna asked after a short while. "I didn't think he'd leave her side."

Isobel sighed. "I sent him out; he was wearing a track in the carpet and driving me to distraction. I told him not to neglect his exercise. I think he went for a walk."

* * *

Matthew paced the length of the library and back again. His mother had commanded him to walk the grounds and get some fresh air, but the thought of walking away from the house, of not being there if Mary—

He'd tried to read a book, but he couldn't sit still.

 _Walk to the bookcase. Browse the titles without seeing them. Was that a noise in the foyer? Hurry to the door_ —

_But no, it was only Thomas, carrying the post on a tray. There were no letters for Matthew._

_Cross to the bookcase, pause by the window and look out. It was a beautiful spring day._

_Dear Lord, please..._

Matthew heard a car rumbling on the drive and he strode quickly to the foyer, waiting as Thomas showed the doctor in.

"Dr Clarkson," Matthew said with a nod. The doctor looked tired; he probably hadn't slept much, if at all, either.

"Mr Crawley," the older man nodded. "How is she?"

"Worse," Matthew answered, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Cousin Cora, too. There must be  _something_  we can do."

Dr Clarkson gave him a resigned look as they made their way towards Mary's room. "I'll do what I can, but I make no promises."

"I understand," Matthew replied.

When they reached the hall, Dr Clarkson paused beside the door, glancing to either side. Thomas had not followed them; they were alone.

"I'm not sure you do," the doctor said, with clear reluctance. "Mrs Crawley thought it best to wait, but if Lady Mary has worsened this quickly, it means... Are you aware of her condition?"

Matthew frowned. "Her condition? How could I not be aware of it? She's terribly ill."

"No, not that condition." Dr Clarkson sighed. "She's with child."

Matthew reeled as a lead weight filled his belly.

"I can tell you this," Dr Clarkson continued after a moment. "If she makes it through the night, she'll live."

_Tonight? Tonight might be the last night...?!_

For a moment, he forgot to breathe; then Matthew pushed back the weight that threatened to crush him, and he looked up at the doctor. "Would the child make it, too?"

"I don't know," Dr Clarkson answered, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "Even if it did, it might be...affected...by the illness."

Matthew swallowed, desperately trying to take it all in. He'd never contemplated having a child with a handicap before. His heart squeezed painfully.  _A child_.

"How long has she...?" Matthew asked.

Dr Clarkson put his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, I'd say three or so months." He raised his eyebrows, a smile  _almost_  appearing on his face. "You would know the possibilities better than I would." He paused. "I am happy for you, Mr Crawley, truly. I only wish I could have delivered the news in better circumstances."

Matthew nodded numbly, swallowing again, and followed the doctor into the bedroom.

* * *

When Robert entered the sitting room that evening before dinner, he found Matthew slumped on the sofa beside the fireplace, his eyes closed and his lips moving as he murmured softly. Not wanting to disturb him, Robert crossed the room quietly and sank down in the chair opposite. When he looked up, however, he saw Matthew watching him with weary, sympathetic eyes, and Robert nodded a greeting. Matthew responded in kind, sighing quietly, and looked away again. He looked as terrible as Robert felt.

Cora was  _so_  ill. Robert felt as though his whole world had gone over a cliff in the course of a single night. Edward, at least, finally seemed to be asleep, and they'd had word from Edith that Harold and Sylvia were recovering at about the same rate. Anthony had fallen ill, but the doctor wasn't terribly worried about him. Carson and the other servants were still abed, merely resting. Only Cora's and Mary's temperatures had risen so high that they were delirious, insensible to their surroundings.

When Cora's nose had begun to bleed, Robert could bear to watch no longer; he'd fled, feeling a coward but helpless to change a thing. It was best that he stay out of the way as everyone tended to her. All that was left to him was to seek forgiveness and pray. He did not think God was punishing Cora for his being foolish enough to stray, but he felt he could hardly ask the Almighty for a special dispensation without admitting his weakness first.

Matthew seemed to have been of the same mind, at least when it came to resorting to prayer. What else could they do? Robert did not inquire after Mary; he knew all he needed to from Matthew's manner.

So they sat in silence, staring at the flickering flames.

Some time later, Thomas entered the sitting room. He was back in livery, Robert noted, wondering what Carson would have to say about that.

"Dinner is served, my lord."

With a glance at Matthew, Robert stood. They went through into the dining room, following the usual evening pattern, but it felt a hollow farce. Thomas looked the part of a proper footman—ironic that they should finally have one now, when all the concern about it didn't matter a whit—but neither Matthew nor Robert had changed for dinner. The meal progressed, with a desultory comment or two. Dr Clarkson, Isobel, and Sybil joined them at the table shortly thereafter with an update that was not too encouraging, and the food tasted like ashes in Robert's mouth. But he pressed on; he must not let his own strength fail, for if the worst were to— He forced himself to eat another mouthful.

When they reached the dessert course, Robert heard rapid footfalls out in the great hall. Everyone looked up from their meal as Anna rushed into the room, slightly breathless.

"What is it?" Isobel asked, pushing to her feet, but Anna only looked at Matthew.

"Come quick, sir, please. She's asking for you."

"Oh, thank God!" Robert exclaimed, pulling off his napkin and getting to his feet as Matthew quickly rose. "Some good news at last!"

But one look at Anna's white face sent a chill through his heart, because her expression was filled with pain and regret.

"She doesn't know herself," Anna explained. "She's still not in her right mind."

Matthew and the doctor had already pushed past her, and the rest of the family hurried out of the room in their wake.

When Robert entered the bedroom, he found Matthew seated beside the bed, a desperate look on his face, and Mary lying pale and thin, her hair soaked with sweat and plastered to her skin. She wasn't tossing in delirium, but her limp stillness was somehow worse.

"I'm here, my darling, I'm here..." Matthew murmured, close beside her. He took her hand. "I'm here, Mary. I love you so terribly much, darling."

Her face turned towards the sound, her eyelids fluttering but not opening. Matthew glanced up hopefully at Dr Clarkson, but the doctor only paced at the foot of the bed, watching Mary closely, a deep frown on his face. Matthew looked back down at his wife.

"Mary..." he began. "Did you want to tell me something?"

Mary whispered, struggling to breathe; Robert had to strain to hear the faint syllables.

"Matth'...th' baby... 'm sorry..." she said, and Robert's heart clenched.

"What did she say?" Sybil asked.

But Mary had gone terribly still. Matthew's hand convulsed on hers.

"Darling?" he said, his voice breaking. "Mary? Darling? Talk to me, please!"

But Mary did not answer. Robert watched her chest desperately, willing it to rise as he listened to Matthew plead softly with her. Was there a faint breath? He couldn't tell. Dr Clarkson moved around the bed to stand beside Matthew. The doctor checked her pulse and listened to her lungs. After a long moment, he straightened, his whole frame weary.

"She still has a faint pulse, but..." he shook his head.

Matthew had not paid the doctor any attention. He only drew his chair closer to the bed and murmured something to Mary that Robert couldn't make out.

Robert felt a hand pressing on his back. He looked down at Isobel's wide eyes and pulled-down mouth.

"Let them be," she murmured, and he swallowed and nodded, half in shock.

He couldn't quite remember how he had gotten to be outside in the hall, but when he took in Sybil's pale face, he stepped up to her and drew her into a hug.

He felt tears threatening to brim over but held them back. Not yet.  _Not yet._

Sybil drew in a deep breath and straightened. He could see the tears that she held back, too. She was strong; he was so proud of her.

She turned to Dr Clarkson, her voice forced and professional. "Should I stay with them?"

Dr Clarkson shook his head. "Lady Mary is beyond our help now. It's best we leave them in peace."

Robert's mind was numb with shock.

"Matthew will come out when he's ready," Isobel agreed.

"But she's not gone yet," Sybil protested, and Robert made a noise as well, feeling a surge of anger at how easily the doctor and Isobel seemed to be giving up. He wanted to rush back into the bedroom and  _do something_.

"Fussing around her won't change anything now," Dr Clarkson answered quietly. "Trying to bring the fever down won't work. There's already been too much damage done."

The four of them stood in a heavy silence, and then Dr Clarkson looked up.

"I'd like to see how Lady Grantham is getting on," he said.

Nodding, Sybil led the way and Robert followed behind with a heavy heart, giving the closed bedroom door a final look. He watched Isobel pull up a chair and take a seat in the hall, and his heart twisted.

_Oh, Mary, my dear little girl!_

* * *

There was a warm weight across her belly and her throat was thick and dry. Blinking and frowning, Mary opened her eyes. Soft, early-morning light shone through the still-drawn curtains; it was overcast outside. She swallowed and her throat hurt terribly. She needed a glass of water, but there was no one seated in the chair beside the bed.

A soft breath blew across her neck and she turned her head to see Matthew, asleep beside her. He looked quite undignified and she smiled. His hair, still hardened with pomade, was stood up at odd angles from his scalp, and his shirt was bunched around his upper arms and waist. It had come partially untucked, poking out under his waistcoat and over the top of his trousers. He lay above the covers; the weight over her stomach was his arm.

With an effort—her whole body ached unpleasantly—she rolled to face him and slid her hand up inside his untucked shirt, working it further free as she ran her palm over the warm skin of his lower back. Her fingertips brushed against the stippling of his scars and she felt him stir. He made a deep, sleepy sound and her smile widened. She let her hand play, just enjoying the warm, masculine feel of him. The muscles of his back moved under her hand as he shifted, drawing her more securely against himself.

With a sudden sharp intake of breath, his eyes flew open. He stared at her, wide-eyed for a moment, and then dampness rose in his eyes and his mouth trembled.

"Ohhh...!" he breathed, reaching up to cup the back of her head. He pressed his forehead against hers, squeezing his eyes closed. "Oh, thank God!"

She felt his breath shudder as he calmed himself. Still stroking his back, she half-frowned, confused. "How—" God, that hurt! She tried again, her voice still coming out in a raspy, painful whisper. "—how long have I slept?"

He pulled back enough to look at her, a wide smile rising on his lips, and he gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. One of his eyebrows twitched down and he swallowed. "It's been nearly two days, darling. Oh..." And he stroked her hair, finally letting his hand drift down to rest on her waist.

Mary frowned. "Two  _days?_  What happened?"

"Your temperature rose so quickly. You were delirious, and then you fell unconscious and they couldn't bring your fever down—they tried everything—and Dr Clarkson said—" Matthew paused, calming himself again.

When he looked back up at her, her eyes widened.

"You know," she whispered, and he nodded.

"It didn't look good for you, darling." His mouth trembled slightly, but he pulled it up in a tentative smile this time, as his palm slid down to press gently against her abdomen. "They finally left me alone with you last night, because we all thought...we would lose you both." Matthew looked up at her quickly. "How do you feel?"

The pain in her throat renewed itself with a vengeance and she grimaced, trying to swallow. "Thirsty."

In a flash, Matthew was up off the bed—he stumbled slightly, but quickly steadied himself against the bedpost, chuckling—and he moved around to her side to pour her a glass of water. He helped her sit up and made sure she was comfortable against the pillows, then gave her the water. She accepted it gratefully and when she drained it, he poured her another, sitting to watch her and caress her leg as she drank.

When she finished the second glass, she sank back against the pillows with a sigh and smiled at him.

"Truly, how do you feel?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"Drained," she answered, her voice still sounding weak to her ears. "But otherwise... fine." Then she touched her hair with a frown. "And in desperate need of a bath." At his laugh, she looked up at his hair and smirked. "You could do with one yourself, darling."

He gingerly poked at his hair and discovered the shape of it in short order, chuckling again. He rose. "Your wish is my command." Beginning to unbutton his waistcoat, he bent and kissed her softly, and she sighed in happiness.

When he straightened and finished with his buttons, shrugging off the garment, she frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I want to bathe first. Would you ring for Anna?"

He grinned and shook his head, turning to walk towards the bathroom. She noted how steady he seemed on his feet. The distance was only a short one and he was always a bit stronger in the morning than in the evening, but still: she smiled to see his improvement. How far he had come!

"I'm perfectly capable of drawing a bath," he replied, his voice echoing slightly as he moved into the bathroom.

She frowned as she heard the water running, and she slowly pushed back the sheets. She felt weak and trembly, but she was able to put her feet on the floor beside the bed. She took a deep breath despite the raspy pain in her chest and started to rise, wavered, tried again—

Matthew made a sharp sound and was back across the room, quickly grasping her arm. They found their balance and walked into the bathroom together. Mary smiled when she saw the water filling the tub, a slight whisper of steam coming from the hot tap.

"I thought we could bathe together, then ring," Matthew said.

She gave him a disconcerted look. "Together?"

"Why not?" he asked, smiling again, his eyes now twinkling, his expression provocative.

"I'm not feeling up to anything like  _that_ ," she protested.

He chuckled. "Oh, don't worry. Just to hold you—" His eyes softened. "—to hold you  _both_ , is more than enough."

Nodding, she smiled as he gently helped her undress. She needed to relieve herself, so he went out, poured himself a glass of water and undressed, returning only when she called him back in. He helped her climb into the warm water, closed the taps, and then climbed in behind her. They took a few moments to find their places, but when she finally settled back into his embrace and laid her head against his shoulder, she relaxed with a long, contented sigh and he matched it.

And so they rested, surrounded by the steam rising from the water, quietly marvelling at the life that flowed between them. After a short while, he helped her wash, and she helped him. She found that there were new delights to be discovered in their marriage, and she loved him all the more.

* * *

"I hope you've slept today," Mary said, picking up a piece of buttered toast to take a bite. It was dinner-time, but Dr Clarkson had insisted that she eat only simple foods for the next day or two. She didn't object; truly, the thought of eating something heavier wasn't very appealing. She'd slept nearly the whole day away, but she still felt weak.

Anna straightened the bedclothes and moved about the room, gathering up a few items. Matthew had left a book on the windowsill, so Anna brought it to his bedside table.

"Yes, I slept after I saw to you this morning, my lady," Anna replied with a grin.

Mary hid a blush behind her mug of chamomile tea.

"Her Ladyship was asking after you," Anna said.

Mary looked up. "Oh, is she awake? Good..."

Anna nodded. "Yes, although she's still too weak to sit up."

"How is everyone else?"

Anna's face fell, and she stilled beside the bed. "Nanny passed away this afternoon."

Mary straightened. "What? I hadn't realized she was so ill."

"She...wasn't," Anna replied, frowning. "I'd spoken to her only an hour earlier, and she was sat up in bed. I thought she'd be up and about soon." Anna swallowed and looked down.

"Did you find her?" Mary asked quietly, reaching out to touch Anna's wrist.

Anna nodded, her jaw working and her eyes damp. Then she drew in a deep breath and straightened, moving briskly to finish her tidying.

"Everyone else is on the mend. Master Edward was demanding that someone read to him and he threw his rabbit at Mr Bates."

Mary rolled her eyes, taking up her fork again. "That sounds like Edward."

Anna's expression softened. "His Lordship spent much of the day in the nursery."

Mary's eyebrows rose, but she made no comment, so Anna continued her report.

"Mrs Hughes said that Mr Carson's started to ask questions about how the household is getting on, and attempting to give orders, but she's not having any of it."

"Good for her," Mary said. "How are Harry and Sylvia?"

"Lady Edith called an hour ago," Anna replied. "They're also on the mend." Anna paused, narrowing her eyes at Mary. "How are you feeling, my lady?"

"Tired," Mary answered.

"But nothing...more worrisome?" Anna asked, her gaze briefly flickering down to Mary's stomach.

Mary sighed and smiled. "No. But Dr Clarkson said I should take it easy for the next few days."

"I agree," Anna said, then smiled at the sound of the dressing room door opening. "I'll be off. Please ring if you need anything, my lady."

Anna glanced back at Matthew as she crossed the room, and then she was gone. Mary looked at him. He cut such a fine figure that she couldn't help smiling up at him. He pulled out the chair and sat down beside the bed.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Good," he answered, settling back and leaving his stick propped against his leg. He took her hand and ran his thumb over her fingers. "Tom has accepted my offer."

"Oh, thank God," Mary breathed. "And Sybil?"

"I'm going to speak with Robert tonight. If he seems willing to consider her plans, she and Tom have agreed not to make their announcement until her path is clearer."

"Whatever you do, don't let slip any hint of why you're taking her side in this."

"Why not?" Matthew asked. "She would make a wonderful doctor."

Mary smiled as Matthew's eyes twinkled at her.

"I'm glad you slept so deeply," Matthew said. He pressed his lips together, his eyes falling to her stomach. "Dr Clarkson assured me that you were over the worst of it."

Mary clasped his hand tightly. "Whatever happens with your new job, I don't want to leave Downton yet. Not until after the baby is born."

Matthew nodded. "I don't think your parents will object to that."

Mary swallowed and gave him a small smile.

He smiled back, his eyes warm and growing just a touch damp. Then he blinked, pressing her hand.

"Well, I must go," he said. "I shouldn't like to keep everyone waiting."

"Good luck, darling," she answered as he rose.

"I love you," he said, bending to kiss her forehead.

"I love you, too." She released his hand and watched as he went out of the room.

Then, smiling to herself, she returned to her meal.

* * *

Matthew watched Thomas go out, taking the box of cigars and the brandy away on a tray, before he turned his attention back to Robert.

"Branson has accepted my offer," Matthew said.

"I know," Robert answered. "He gave his notice this afternoon. He'll stay on for three more weeks."

Matthew nodded, watching Robert carefully.

The older man sighed and glanced briefly at his cigar. "I'm not angry, truly." He gave Matthew a half-smile. "I've had a good dose of putting things in perspective recently."

Matthew tilted his head and chuckled softly in agreement, raising his eyebrows as he drew on his cigar.

He exhaled. "I'll telephone Murray tomorrow," he said. "I expect we'll be down to London for a day, but—" He eyed Robert. "Mary and I would like to stay at Downton for a while longer, if you and Cousin Cora don't mind. Particularly as there's some concern about the baby..."

Robert nodded, a light in his eyes. "I suspected as much. Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you." Matthew smiled down at his brandy, then took a swallow and savoured it.

"I'll speak with Cora, when she's well enough, but I don't expect it will be a problem."

"I'm glad she's recovering, too," Matthew replied.

Robert's eyes flickered uncomfortably. "Jane gave her notice this afternoon."

Pressing his lips together in a small smile, Matthew fixed Robert in a level gaze. "I meant what I said before. We won't fall out over this. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"No...but you should know that she wasn't sacked."

"I wouldn't have thought you capable of that," Matthew answered calmly, lifting his cigar to his lips.

They smoked in a silence for a short while.

"So," Matthew began, raising an eyebrow. "What are you going to do about Sybil?"

Robert groaned and took a bracing swallow of brandy. "After tonight's performance? God knows. What can I do? I can't lock her up in her bedroom. But medical school? It's mad!"

"Anything is better than politics, though, eh?"

Robert chuckled, then sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Daughters." He glanced upwards. "Why the good Lord saw fit to give me daughters..."

"He knew you were up to the challenge," Matthew answered, smirking.

Robert fixed him in a look. "You joke now, but wait until you're faced with a pair of pigtails, and you won't be nearly so sanguine. They're adorable and charming and then they become hellfire overnight."

Matthew blew out a cloud of smoke. "They can't be  _that_  bad, surely. Besides—" He gestured with his cigar. "—you've got three extraordinarily clever and beautiful ones. It could be much worse."

Robert gave a short, closed-mouth laugh and grimaced. "Yes. Yes, you're perfectly right. I have been blessed with a wise wife and three wise daughters, except for this whole madness of Sybil's."

"Oh, it's not mad," Matthew protested. "I quite admire Sybil, actually. She has a great deal of courage. And really, it's her turn to shine. Mary distinguished herself as the hospital administrator, and Edith's built an excellent reputation as a writer. Why shouldn't Sybil want to do more than merely snare a husband? It's a new world, Robert. Women aren't going to remain in our shadow for long."

"That's what I'm worried about," Robert replied, exhaling smoke and narrowing his eyes. "Where will men like me fit in?" He waved his hand at their rich surroundings. "What did I do to earn this place or anyone's respect? We wouldn't be sitting here right now if Cora hadn't been kind enough to marry me and bring along her entire fortune. I'm not a fool. I can read the writing on the wall."

"Just because one is born into a role doesn't mean one can't be skilled in fulfilling it."

Robert gave him a look. " _You_  don't think I'm particularly skilled at it."

Matthew's shoulders fell and he sighed, fixing Robert in a patient stare. "You don't take advantage of anyone. If you're a dying breed, I don't consider that a good thing. You are loved and respected, Robert, and that is no small achievement. Suppose you were a master of business and you _had_  made your fortune by your own hand. What does that matter?" Matthew relaxed back with a small smile and shrugged. "A sounding brass and all that. What matters is what you do with it  _now_."

Robert watched him with a slight frown, taking a thoughtful draw on his cigar. Finally, exhaling smoke and looking away, he sighed.

"I can't put Sybil off forever. I'm just afraid that if I tell her no, she'll do something rash that she'll come to regret."

Matthew gestured with his tumbler as he lifted it to his lips. "You don't have to give her a yea or a nay yet," he said, and took a swallow as Robert narrowed his eyes. "Ask her to put together a proposal. How much will it cost, which schools is she considering, how long will it take, what might her living arrangements be, and what is her plan to qualify for an entrance? That will give you time to think, and if she's still determined even after counting all the costs, you can discuss it with level heads and establish terms that are acceptable to you both."

Robert chuckled around his cigar. "Spoken like a lawyer."

Matthew smiled and shrugged.

"Very well," Robert agreed, jutting out his chin. "Since I get the sense that she's enlisted you to her cause, you may explain the requirements to her. And when the time comes for us to discuss it, I expect you to be there, to help  _her_  see reason."

Matthew laughed and glanced down. He looked back up again, nodding. "Agreed."

* * *

Cora opened her eyes to the warm yellow light from her bedside lamp. It was evening, and Robert sat beside the bed, watching her. How long had he been sitting there? What time was it? She was propped up on pillows, but she couldn't remember when that had happened.

"A sight to gladden my heart," Robert said, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes were filled with regret.

"Is it?" Cora asked, feeling a stab of regret herself. "I hope it is."

"You gave us quite a fright."

"They told me about Nanny," Cora said. She felt a renewed wave of sadness. Nanny had been so wonderful with Edward, and with Harry and Sylvia.

Robert paused, his whole frame weary. "The funeral is on Monday."

"I'd like to go if I can," she said.

He nodded.

Wanting to feel his touch, she reached for him, but she was so very tired. Her arm only slipped from where it had rested on her leg down to the edge of the bed, and she felt so inadequate. But he took her hand, squeezing it firmly, and she pressed back as well as she could. How she missed him! It seemed it had been so long...

"We're all right, aren't we, Robert?"

He looked down for a moment, then met her eyes, his gaze warm and earnest. "Of course we are."

"Only I know I got so caught up in everything, I think I neglected you. And if I did, I'm sorry." Her voice was little more than a whisper, and it broke at the end.

Robert blinked, pressing her hand again. "Don't apologise to me."

O'Brien came in with a tray and he glanced up at the maid, then back to Cora.

"How is Mary?" Cora asked.

"Recovering well," he answered with a smile. "I've told them they can stay until after the baby is born. Dr Clarkson thinks there might still be cause for concern."

"Of course," Cora agreed, nodding and closing her eyes. "Yes, of course..."

After a moment, she heard Robert's voice draw closer. "Good night, my dear," he said softly.

His warm hand pressed against her cheek a moment, and she sighed in contentment.

* * *

Thomas left the last salad fork in its place and stood back to inspect the contents of the silver cupboard. There was nothing missing. With a nod of satisfaction, he reached back to close and lock the cupboard doors.

Behind him, someone clear their throat, and Thomas turned. It was Mr Carson, still in pyjamas and a bathrobe, and looking much the worse for wear.

"Are you sure you should be up, Mr Carson?"

The old butler steadied himself on the table beside the doorway and straightened. "I wanted to check the silver before tomorrow."

"I think I've cleaned all the pieces we might need," Thomas answered briskly, as he finished locking the cupboard doors. He turned and stepped up to Mr Carson. "We'll get everything ready the moment breakfast is over."

Mr Carson wavered slightly as he shifted his weight. "Thank you for the way you've kept it all going, Thomas. I wish I knew how to express my gratitude."

Thomas gave Carson an almost-smile, keeping his face a mask of blank, cheerful servitude. "You'll find a way, Mr Carson." As he spoke, he held out the keys to the silver cupboard and Carson accepted them. With a final nod, Thomas went out into the corridor. He reached the foot of the stairs, intending to go up to bed, but a sneering voice from the servants' hall made him pause.

"Why are you Goody Two-Shoes all of a sudden? What's the idea? And don't say there isn't one, because I know better."

Thomas looked down at O'Brien's sharp-eyed gaze a moment, then smiled.

"You know me too well, Miss O'Brien. All right. If I've got to be a servant again, I'm not going to be a bloody footman for long. You watch while I make myself indispensable."

O'Brien glanced towards the butler's pantry. "And Mr Carson's getting on...?"

Thomas lifted his chin. "Exactly."

* * *

**Three weeks later**

"She refuses to give them the boy," Mrs Hughes said, giving Mr Carson a pained look before she took another sip of the hot liquid. They often spent a few minutes at the end of the day in her office, sharing a quiet cup of tea and going over the plans for the days ahead. "She thinks they won't love him like she does."

"You can hardly blame them," he answered, unimpressed.

Mrs Hughes gave him a hard look. "I think she's wrong about Mrs Bryant, at least. That woman doesn't have an unkind bone in her body."

"It's foolishness," Mr Carson answered, taking up his own teacup. "They could give him position, a proper education, a future. What can Ethel give him?"

Mrs Hughes only pressed her lips together and shook her head. She finished another sip of her tea and looked up. "The new maid is starting tomorrow morning. She seems a good sort."

"No child, I hope."

"Not this one, no. I think she's come from minding a houseful of young children and a life of hard manual labour would be an escape."

Mr Carson chuckled, then sobered. "Still, Jane was a good worker. I'll miss her."

"You won't be the only one, I suspect."

Mr Carson's eyebrows drew down. "What does that mean?"

"Never mind," Mrs Hughes said briskly. "How is Mr March working out?"

"Well enough," Mr Carson replied, scowling. "He takes his time, though."

"Mmm. Perhaps he's just getting accustomed to the cars."

Mr Carson shook his head. "He seems a deliberate fellow in all that he does. I have to call for him ten minutes earlier than I used to have to call for Mr Branson, just to get him to bring the car around by the time His Lordship is ready to depart." Mr Carson took a swallow of his tea. "Has Her Ladyship gotten any more applications for a governess?"

Mrs Hughes frowned. "Difficult business, that. Master Edward's at an awkward age: he'll soon be too old for a nanny, but he's not quite old enough for a governess yet."

The butler smiled. "What a handful the young master is, hm?"

Mrs Hughes smiled over her teacup. "There's no lack of fire in that one. He'll make a fearsome earl, if he puts his mind to it."

"That's a rather optimistic assessment. He's only four."

"True, but what was Lady Mary like at that age?"

Mr Carson chuckled and set down his teacup with a long sigh. "You may be right."

* * *

Matthew shook out the newspaper as he frowned down at it. "There's been a terrible massacre in Amritsar," he said.

Across the table, reading his own copy of  _The Times_  over breakfast, Robert glanced up. "An unfortunate mess, that."

"'Unfortunate'?" Matthew repeated. "They say three hundred and seventy people died and twelve hundred were wounded! It's a bit worse than 'unfortunate'."

"Yes," Robert answered, glaring at him before disappearing behind his own paper again. "Running a colony is sometimes an ugly business."

 _The people of India aren't going to stand for this for much longer_ , Matthew thought sourly, ashamed on behalf of his countrymen. Contemplating the whole business made him ill. He reached for his cup and took another sip to settle his stomach before returning to the paper, quickly glancing down the columns of newsprint. He didn't have much longer before it was time to go to the train station.

He scanned the financial news, seeing the usual array of bank announcements, updates from America and the Continent—

"CANADIAN GRAND TRUNK NATIONALISED" the small headline read. Crammed as it was amongst all the other news, he could easily have missed it. The name of the company rang a bell, but it took him a few moments to place it.

_Robert's investment!_

Matthew's head snapped up and he lowered his paper, looking across the table at Robert, who had just then lowered his own paper to turn the page. Robert caught his glance.

"Don't you need to be going?" he asked.

Matthew swallowed and nodded. Perhaps the news didn't mean what he thought it meant. Perhaps the Canadian government would be making good on the debts.

But as Matthew quickly folded the paper and stood, he frowned. It just had a sour ring about it...

"Have a good week," he replied, then glanced out as he heard a car pull on to the drive, and he gave a brisk nod.

"You too," Robert answered. "Good luck with your first client."

"Thank you, but hopefully luck will have nothing to do with it."

Robert smiled and returned to his coffee and his paper, shaking the pages out as he straightened them again.

After a moment's indecision, Matthew turned away and went out. Truly, it wasn't his concern. He had more pressing things to consider, and he smiled, eager to kiss Mary good-bye and go out to meet Tom as they embarked on a new adventure together.


	32. Chapter 32

_32_

**August 1919**

"You're insatiable."

"Mmm," Matthew replied, pressing a warm kiss to Mary's neck as he embraced her from behind. His hands stroked the sides of her protruding belly and settled into a comfortable position as he rested his chin on her shoulder. They stood quietly together, watching the gently-rippling reflection of the late-afternoon sun on the lake. "I'm leaving in the morning for a two-week trip and you are..." His lips drifted up to her ear and her eyes fell closed as he rumbled in a low voice. "... _irresistible_. Why would I be anything else?"

She eased back against him, feeling her body warm and tingle in response. Being with child, at least in these late months and with her husband travelling so much, often seemed to leave her insatiable too, but she wasn't about to admit that to him. He was already insufferable enough. She still couldn't fathom why he found her irresistible; most days she felt like a cow, not a siren, but he seemed to take genuine pleasure in how the baby had transformed her body. His frank appreciation was a surprising development, but not an unwelcome one.

"We should be getting back," she said, disentangling herself from his grasp and turning towards the house. She eyed the ground that rose before them and took a deep breath. There was a small hill to climb before they were on the level ground for the remaining walk back, and in her state, it took a bit of effort.

Matthew held her hand, giving her a firm frame to lean against, and they climbed the hill. She let out a sigh of relief when they topped the rise and the house was fully in view.

"I wish I weren't away so much," he said, giving her a worried look. She shrugged him off and continued walking. Her heart was pounding a little, but she endeavoured to even out her breathing, so as not to draw his attention any further.

"Let us see it as a good thing," she replied, measuring her words carefully between breaths. "You and Tom are much in demand; there's security in that."

"Not for long, I suspect," Matthew replied. "It's a rather depressing business, seeing how many estates are falling on hard times."

She had no answer to that. The way of life she had grown accustomed to during her childhood was fast disappearing. Fewer families accepted their invitations these days, or were able to extend them in return. There were new opportunities, true, but the future held more unknowns than not, and she wondered what sort of world her children would live in. They would most likely grow up in a city, which gave her a pang of concern, but she looked at Matthew with a smile. He was a city boy, and he'd turned out well.

"What?" he asked, strolling along beside her.

She drew in a breath and looked at her childhood home with a shrug. "Just thinking about the future."

"I'm glad it makes you smile," he said.

She sighed. "Yes, well, it also makes me quake."

He chuckled. "I know what you mean."

She wanted to say more, but she couldn't quite draw a full breath and she didn't want him to notice, so they walked along in silence for a couple minutes.

"Let's stop here a short while," he said, touching her elbow and gesturing towards the bench under the tree with his other hand.

"It's getting late, Matthew."

"We needn't stay long," he said with a smile, although his eyes were tinged with worry. "And you should rest."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm expecting, I'm not dying."

"You're wheezing," he answered. "Take a seat."

Giving him a look, she obeyed. "I'm going to be glad when you're gone, you know," she said pertly, looking away as she seated herself. "You can be quite imperious when you wish to be."

He sat down beside her with a smirk, unfazed. "I  _am_  my mother's son," he answered. "We're as docile as lambs when everyone around us is behaving sensibly, but we won't be shamed into docility when they're being fools."

"I'm not a fool!"

He slipped an arm behind her shoulders, resting it on the bench, and settled back with a contented sigh. "You achieve nothing by pretending all is well," he replied, "except to make me more determined to see that you really are."

"I'm  _fine_ , Matthew."

He turned to look at her, a playful light in his eyes. His gaze travelled appreciatively over her body. "That you are."

She pushed her elbow into his ribcage and he laughed.

"Don't begrudge me my enjoyment of you," he said, angling himself towards her. He embraced her gently, his hand caressing her upper arm, and he put his other hand on the swell of her belly. She watched a warmth suffuse his features as he regarded their unborn child, and her protests melted away. He was going to be a marvellous father, she was certain of it. She so looked forward to putting his son or daughter in his arms. Soon, soon! Dr Clarkson had estimated the birth would take place sometime near the end of September, only six weeks away.

"On balance," he murmured, "the future fills me with more hope than fear."

She smiled. "Me, too."

He met her gaze and they kissed gently before he drew away with a sigh, his gaze flickering into the middle distance. She frowned as she watched his movement.

"You've been distracted since you telephoned Murray," she said. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, exactly," Matthew replied. "He's been suggesting that we ought to move to London. Now that he's got assessment clients in the south, too, I suppose it does make a certain amount of sense. And nearly everyone comes through the city, particularly when Parliament is in session."

Mary's heart gave a small leap, but she kept her tone measured. "And it would be easier to conduct the legal business if you didn't have to travel  _to_  everyone, but they came to you."

"I'd still be travelling north quite a lot," Matthew said, frowning. "Assessing properties and getting contracts signed in a timely fashion and such. Speaking of which—" He turned to her. "—did you finish the will revisions for Lord Aysgarth? I've been meaning to ask you, because Tom and I could stop off at Percyworth on our way out to Ireland."

"I typed up the final draft this afternoon, just before tea," she answered with a nod.

"Did I leave out a clause this time?" He was smirking at her.

She grinned. "Not this time, no."

"Good." He lifted his chin and looked away.

"It's fortunate that you have a wife as clever as I am," Mary observed. "Otherwise, you'd be bringing it all back for yet another round of revisions."

"Yes," he replied, frowning slightly. "I wish you'd allow me to pay you."

"With what?" she scoffed. "Everything that is yours is mine as well."

"I could set up an account that is solely at your discretion. It's where your settlement belongs, anyway." He said this last with a wince. "Accepting money for marrying you has never sat well with me."

Mary gave him a look. "You make it sound as though Papa paid you to take me off his hands. It was just a formality, the only inheritance I'll ever receive."

"I know, but since he gave the money to  _me_ and legally you can't make use of it without my signature, it smacks of a dowry."

"Set up the account, then," Mary replied. "I've no objection. But you're not to pay me."

"But it doesn't seem right, making you work for free."

"You're not 'making' me do anything, darling," she replied. "I quite enjoy having something interesting to do, and it allows me to keep Mama and Isobel off my back for  _hours_  at a time." Matthew laughed. "Besides," Mary continued, leaning towards him. "Whoever said that I'm not exacting tribute in some other fashion?" By the end of her words, her lips were brushing his ear, and her brow nudged the brim of his driver's cap.

"Would you like to go in now?" he asked, a little thickly, and she smiled and straightened.

"Yes, I think I would."

He rose and helped her to her feet, steadying her with a hand against her back. He smirked at her. "Now who's being imperious?"

"Ah, but when  _I_  am imperious, you quite enjoy it."

He chuckled, that playful, provocative light shining in his eyes again, and as his fingers drifted down to caress her lower back—just barely within the bounds of propriety—he spoke in an undertone. "I could say the same of you, darling."

She let her eyes give her away, acknowledging his point. Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she interlaced her fingers loosely with his and they returned to the great house, both smiling rather widely.

* * *

Tom, wearing his best suit, his damp hair freshly combed, walked up the village road towards Crawley House. His stomach roiled unpleasantly as butterflies warred with fear. His hands felt empty; he would have preferred to bring a small bouquet, but Mrs Crawley was right. They had to be discreet if they wanted this scheme to work. But  _did_  he still want it to work?

He much preferred standing up and declaring himself. This subterfuge felt somehow wrong, as though they were doing something that ought to be hidden. But they weren't. He loved Lady Sybil Crawley and she loved him, and he wasn't ashamed to tell the world. Their careful approach right now was just to preserve the possibility of her entering medical school, he reminded himself. He was helping her pursue her dreams.

 _But what of mine?_  he wondered, then quickly smiled at a passer-by whom he realised was smiling at him. He tipped his hat politely. She was young and pretty and looked as though she were willing to chat, but he wasn't interested. He continued on down the road.

He wasn't fighting for Irish independence and he wasn't married to Sybil. Instead, he was traipsing about the countryside, discovering that the English upper classes were a more amiable sort than he'd expected, and many of them had fallen on hard times, by no fault of their own. When one could take their perspective, it was a rather sad prospect, families losing homes and lands they'd held for generations, brothers and sons lost or left scarred from the ravages of war. Most were doing their best to carry on, but it seemed no one had been left untouched.

And what could he say while he sat at table in stiff and unfamiliar white tie? That he had a heart murmur, and he'd spent the whole of the war buffing His Lordship's Sunbeam to a polished sheen?

He gave a short, mocking laugh as he walked, but his levity quickly faded.

Whenever conversation turned to the war, Tom inevitably fell silent and let Matthew take up the slack. Not that Matthew ever had much to say on the topic, but at least there was no fear that  _he_  would reveal something uncomfortable.

It hadn't all been dreary, and Tom had engaged in a fiery debate or three about "the Irish question", as the English toffs so quaintly put it, but as he approached the gate to Crawley House, he frowned. What mattered to him? His old beliefs seemed to be challenged every day, and he wanted so desperately to see Sybil again, to have a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation, and remember.

He saw movement through the curtained windows and his heart gave a leap. Squaring his shoulders, he smiled and pushed the gate open, quickly latching it behind him.

Sarah, the maid, answered the door. When she saw him, she nodded and smiled, stepping aside for him to enter.

"Mr Branson," she said. "Mrs Crawley is expecting you. You're to go through to the dining room."

"Thank you," he answered, taking off his hat. He hung it on a hook and, giving Sarah a friendly nod, followed her instructions. He found Sybil and Mrs Crawley huddled together at one end of the dining room table, their heads bent over a heavy tome, muttering together as Sybil pointed at something.

Sybil was the first to look up, and the expression of joy that lit her features made him sure he was ten feet tall.

"Ah, there you are, Tom," Mrs Crawley observed, and she sat back, grinning as she watched Sybil rise and hurry around the table to greet him. They did not embrace, of course, despite every fibre of Tom's body wishing they could, but Sybil clasped his hands and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. He turned his face towards hers as she pulled away, his lips missing hers by a hair's-breadth.

Mrs Crawley cleared her throat, rising from the table and closing the tome. "Mrs Bird will have supper ready imminently."

Tom realised that he was still holding Sybil's hands. She'd been rubbing her thumbs against his skin. How long had they been standing in this fashion? Reluctantly, he released her and watched her return to her seat.

Mrs Crawley returned from leaving the heavy book on a side-table, and she gestured at the chair opposite Sybil before sitting down between them at the head of the table. Tom took his seat.

"How was your trip?" Sybil asked him, pulling a napkin on to her lap.

"More of the same," he replied.

Mrs Crawley smiled. "They're a maddening combination of insufferably high-handed and relatably human, aren't they?"

Tom looked down with a chuckle. "That's about the shape of it, yes."

The door opened and Sarah entered, carrying a large tray. Conversation was suspended until everyone had their first course and Sarah had gone back out.

"How are your studies going?" Tom enquired of Sybil.

Sybil sighed and smiled all at once. "Well, I think, but there is  _so much_  left to do! Miss Bunting was just here, helping me with my Latin. She said I'm a quick study, but I think she's just being kind. I  _know_  I'm so terribly behind!"

"But you're catching up quickly," Mrs Crawley put in, smiling as she took a bite.

"Will I be ready by October, do you think?" Sybil asked.

Mrs Crawley shrugged and dabbed at her lips. "It's difficult to say. I haven't sat the physician's entrance. But I think you may have a chance of qualifying for admission to the London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women. They understand the educational constraints that women are under. They may be somewhat more flexible than other schools. I can make enquiries, if you like."

"Oh..." Sybil said, frowning. "Are you quite certain that's the thing to do? When I first mentioned it to Papa, he looked rather...displeased. I'm not sure he would accept my  _settling_  for a women's school."

Mrs Crawley raised her eyebrows. "If they're willing to overlook your deficiencies and help you overcome them, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. And Cousin Robert can ask anyone: the London School of Medicine for Women is quite well respected, with many distinguished graduates."

Sybil nodded, still frowning.

"What has Dr Clarkson said about your progress?" Tom asked.

She shrugged and frowned down at her plate. "He hasn't, yet."

"But he has," Mrs Crawley replied, giving Sybil an encouraging smile. "If he didn't think you had a chance, he wouldn't still be tutoring you."

"But most of the time, I think he's just disappointed in me."

"Nonsense," Mrs Crawley said, reaching for her glass. "He's a busy man, and not given to effusion. He tends to assume the worst, but he hopes for the best." Mrs Crawley set her glass down and touched Sybil's hand, where it still rested beside her plate. "Trust me, my dear. You're doing surprisingly well for not having attended secondary school."

"But am I doing well enough?" Sybil asked, glancing between Mrs Crawley and Tom.

"Well, there's no sense in worrying about that now," he answered, giving her an encouraging smile even as his stomach roiled a bit. "When October comes, just do your best."

"And you can always try again next year," Mrs Crawley said cheerfully.

Tom frowned, his eyes shooting to Sybil's. She swallowed and picked up her fork.

"How long might this process take?" he asked carefully.

Sybil straightened, not meeting his eyes. "I would only try for entrance twice," she replied. She lifted her gaze to his. "But I haven't decided if I should even do that."

"Whyever not?" Mrs Crawley asked.

Tom and Sybil looked at one another, neither speaking.

In the silence, they heard a scuffling on the flagstones outside, and then someone was at the door. After a brief, muffled exchange in the hall, a slightly breathless Dr Clarkson appeared in the doorway of the dining room. He'd entered with a warm smile, but it quickly settled into politeness as his gaze took in the company.

"Oh," Mrs Crawley said in a pleased tone, quickly putting off her napkin and rising. Tom automatically matched her movements. "I hadn't told Mrs Bird to expect a fourth, but I'm sure we can make do."

Dr Clarkson he shook his head. "I'm not here for that," he said. "Mr Dupper said that young Mrs Dupper's having a rough time of it, and I could use a second pair of hands. Are you available, Lady Sybil?"

"But—" Tom started to protest, then cut himself off. Mrs Crawley looked at Sybil, whose eyes had lit up.

She quickly rose. "Oh, may I, please?"

Dr Clarkson gave a short nod. "Are Lord and Lady Grantham all right with this, my lady? We might be out the whole night."

"I'll tell them," Mrs Crawley said, smiling at Sybil. "Go on."

Tom opened his mouth again to protest, but Sybil was already pushing her chair in.

Dr Clarkson gave Tom and Mrs Crawley a nod before disappearing again, and Sybil went round the table, brushing past Tom with an apologetic glance. She clasped his hand briefly and then moved towards the door.

His mouth still open, he spun from her to Mrs Crawley and back again, then quickly followed Sybil out into the hall. The front door was closing behind the doctor; he and Sybil were alone in the hall.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. "We'd agreed this evening—"

"I know," Sybil answered quickly. "But Dr Clarkson needs my help."

Tom wanted to insist that Mrs Crawley go instead, but of course that was impossible; he couldn't remain here at Crawley House alone with Sybil, no matter how much he wished it, and he couldn't be seen out in public with Sybil, walking her home.

Sybil had taken her summer coat from the hook and he quickly moved to help her into it.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I  _am_  sorry."

"You say that, but I'm not sure it's true."

She turned on him, her fingers pausing on the coat buttons, and her eyes flashed at him. "What does that mean?"

He sighed, made a frustrated gesture towards the front door. "You're so eager to leave."

Her gaze became exasperated and she finished buttoning up her coat, her mouth pressed in a flat line. She reached for her hat, quickly pulling it on and glancing at her reflection in the hall mirror. Satisfied, she turned to him.

"I  _have to go_ , Tom. There's a woman out there in the throes of giving birth, and she's afraid and she's in pain. If I can help her,  _I must_."

Tom set his jaw as he watched Sybil gather up her handbag.

"I do love you, Tom. You must believe that." She started to turn away.

"Must I?" he asked. "I see less of you now than I did when I still worked for your father! You once told me that I was your ticket away from here, but I think perhaps you've found another 'ticket'."

She paused and turned back, her mouth now open. "How can you think such a thing?"

"Easily," he replied, then stopped speaking, because his throat was thick and he could feel the burn of tears at the edges of his eyes.

"You know that's not what I meant by those words at all!" she snapped, her tone incredulous.

He put his hands on his hips and looked to the side, his jaw working.

"I don't have time for this right now," Sybil bit out. "You're only thinking about yourself. We _will_  finish this discussion, but I have to go."

She left him standing alone in the hallway, glaring at the front door as it swung closed. The nausea in his belly was back, and raging now. He wished he hadn't eaten anything.

He heard a door opening behind him and dropped his arms, wanting nothing more than to be away from this place. He needed some air. He turned with a sigh, intending to give Mrs Crawley his regrets, but she put up a hand before he could speak.

"I was married to a doctor for twenty-four years," she said. "If you wish to marry one as well, then you have much to learn."

He shook his head, looking away. "I'm not sure what I wish."

"Come back in," Mrs Crawley said. "Nothing worth fighting for is ever easily won. Don't give up yet."

He regarded her a moment. Mrs Crawley had been very kind to him, befriending him when he'd left the big house and found a room to rent in the village. She had kept their secret, and spent countless hours tutoring Sybil throughout the summer.

Perhaps it was time for Mrs Crawley to tutor  _him_.

Giving a dry chuckle, Tom looked at the floor with a sigh, then lifted his head and nodded.

"Excellent," Mrs Crawley said. "Let's get started."

* * *

"I missed Sybil this evening," Matthew said, pulling off his dressing gown and tossing it over the armchair. "I've barely seen her since I've been back."

" _I_  didn't," Mary replied. She finished rubbing cream on her hands as she approached the bed. "If I must listen to one more sniping debate between her and Papa over dinner, I shall take a tray in here, instead."

"It's just disappointing," Matthew said. He pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed, taking up a seated position, and Mary did the same. "I thought once they'd agreed to terms, things would go more smoothly."

Mary gave a short laugh. "Things haven't gone smoothly between them since she was fourteen."

"What happened then?"

Mary shrugged as she arranged herself and the sheets. "She started to think for herself. He and I had a falling-out at a similar point, although I think in my case it wouldn't have been quite so strenuous if he hadn't been so bitterly disappointed in my being female. Once that failing was established, we warred over a wide array of things."

Matthew shook his head. "The only time I fell out with my parents was when I declared my intention to study law."

"What about when you'd fallen out over their blind trust in God?"

"No...that was more misplaced grief at my father's impending death than an actual falling-out," Matthew answered with a slight grimace.

Mary pressed her lips together and nodded. After a moment of silence, Matthew turned away, reaching for the book on his bedside table.

Mary smoothed the blankets around her belly. "I've been thinking about our move to London."

Matthew, who had been carefully opening his book to extract the ribbon, looked up with a frown as he let the pages fall closed again. "It's not definite yet, darling. Murray's only begun to talk. I haven't even mentioned it to Tom yet."

"Still, it's a significant undertaking. It will require a great deal of preparation. We ought to discuss the possibility now, so I can start looking into things while you're gone."

He laid his book down and narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm surprised you're so eager. I'd have thought you'd resist more strenuously...as you've been doing for some time, now."

She lifted her chin and rested her hands on her belly, not meeting his eyes. "Well, moving to London is an altogether different prospect." She looked over at him. "I know Mayfair and Belgravia are likely out of our reach, but perhaps Kensington or Chelsea might do."

His brows drew down. "I'm not familiar with the London boroughs, but I strongly suspect that we'd be able to afford a better neighbourhood in Manchester than in London. The larger cities are always more expensive."

"Manchester?" she repeated. "How would it serve for us to move to Manchester?"

He smirked at her. "You needn't pronounce the name with such disdain. Have you even visited? We have well-kept roads and electric lights and even indoor plumbing, you know."

She smoothed her nightgown before interlacing her fingers over her belly again. "Aunt Rosamund says it's a smelly, depressing place."

"Yes, parts of it can be," Matthew admitted. "Some of the older factories now stand unused; there are unpleasant places. But there are unpleasant places in London, too. Manchester has several excellent neighbourhoods and some very well-kept parks."

Mary gave him a look, arching her eyebrow, but he held her gaze, refusing to back down. Finally, she gave a small, disinterested shrug. "London is one of the financial centres of Europe. If you want to make your mark in the world, London is the place to be."

"Who says I want to make my mark in the world?"

She pursed her lips. "You once said that you don't have much ambition, but I didn't think you have so little."

"No..." he answered slowly, drawing out the word. "I said that my ambitions don't run towards politics or the financial stratosphere. I have plenty of ambitions. Such as..." While he spoke, he pushed his book aside and turned towards her, giving her leg a fond caress. "...making you blush..." She fought the urge to smile and, losing the battle, settled on a reluctant smirk. He continued, glancing down at her belly, "...being an excellent father..." She blinked and swallowed. "...building a strong professional reputation, and doing my utmost to do right by the people around me. That's ambition enough for one lifetime, I think."

Her eyes softened and she finally turned her head to look at him, giving him a brief kiss as she cupped his face.

"You don't play fair," she protested, drawing away and smoothing the sheets again. He settled back into a seated position beside her.

"I find the usual rules of the game uninteresting," he replied. "'For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'"

"I still prefer London over Manchester," Mary answered. "It has all the most prominent art and culture, not to mention the best dressmakers."

Matthew regarded her a moment. "That's true enough, but how much do you expect to be able to enjoy those luxuries? We might be able to go out to the theatre and enjoy fine dining on occasion, but that will not be a daily nor even a weekly occurrence. Besides the cost—" He glanced down at her belly before meeting her eyes again. "—have you considered how much children would require of us? They often demand sacrifices, not just of money, but of time as well." He frowned. "We've been able to avoid these home truths whilst enjoying your parents' goodwill, but I'm...concerned that you haven't quite grasped how far a step 'down' you took in marrying me."

Mary gave him an alarmed look. "What are you saying? That I'll be expected to mind our children without assistance? Am I to be the cook and the sole housemaid as well?"

He sighed. "No. We'll be quite well-off. But we'll be middle class."

" _Upper_  middle class."

He chuckled. "You sound like my mother."

"She has a cook and a maid."

"Yes, and we managed perfectly well with just a cook and a maid in Manchester—"

"But a young child presents an altogether different level of housework than a mature woman and her adult son do. If we have more than one child, I would absolutely need assistance of some kind."

"Yes," Matthew agreed, holding up his fingers to tick them off as he spoke. "So we would require a cook, a housemaid, at least a part-time nanny, and possibly an additional under-housemaid or a kitchen maid as our family grows."

"And a lady's maid."

Matthew frowned. "Why? I won't require a valet."

"So you'll sack Molesley? Just like that?"

Matthew sighed. "I don't  _want_  to sack him, but I can't justify bringing him along."

"I thought you were pleased with his work."

"I am, but that's beside the point."

"No, it isn't." Now it was Mary's turn to sigh. "Have you considered who we might be entertaining if your work continues to be successful? Appearance matters a great deal more than you seem to give it credit for. And I cannot ask a housemaid to assist me in properly presenting myself; she'll have work enough."

Matthew set his jaw. "We cannot afford an army of servants. Besides, we'll probably just entertain partners from the firm, and their wives."

"Why not the occasional client?"

"Even if a guest were a lord—if he were kind enough to accept our invitation—he wouldn't expect us to entertain above our means."

"So I'm to do my own hair and press my own clothes?" Mary asked, incredulous.

Matthew raised his eyebrows and Mary frowned, looking away.

"I'm sorry that you see me as a disappointment," he finally said. "But this conversation was inevitable from the moment of Edward's birth. Why are you so surprised?"

"I don't see you as a disappointment," she answered softly. She turned her head to look at him, then suddenly smiled down at her belly and gave a light laugh.

Matthew leaned closer. "Is she kicking?"

"Yes," Mary answered. " _He_  is." She reached for Matthew's hand and guided him to the spot where the baby had last moved.

Matthew waited in expectant silence...and the baby jabbed elsewhere instead. The foot—or elbow or hand—had made a briefly-visible bump, and Matthew chuckled. He laid his cheek gently against Mary's belly and hummed in awe before drawing back.

"It's wondrous," he breathed.

Mary smiled, then caught his gaze. "I don't see you as a disappointment," she repeated. "But if I'm to be left to my own devices, I might be forced to get one of the shorter haircuts they've been wearing in Paris."

Matthew sagged in mock defeat. "Fine, you can have a lady's maid," he answered with a smirk.

"Actually, I might be able to arrange something better," she said, arching an eyebrow as she looked away with a thoughtful expression. He tilted his head in question. "Anna. If I'm not changing for dinner each night, I'll present far fewer garments for her to maintain. She might be willing to double as a housemaid and a lady's maid."

Matthew frowned, looking as though he were seriously considering Mary's words. "But what of Bates? I don't need a valet, but even if I did, I doubt we could afford the salary that he can command as valet to the Earl of Grantham, especially not if we must also maintain so many other servants."

Mary pursed her lips. "He and Anna might be willing to make concessions, if we can provide them with a good situation that would allow them to remain together."

"But why would they ever want to leave Downton?" Matthew asked. "This place gives them greater prestige and most likely better salaries."

Mary shrugged. "All we can do is ask. They might refuse. But I much prefer to establish a new household with people I know and trust."

Matthew winced. "I agree, but I don't much relish the prospect of telling Robert that we want to poach two  _more_  of his best people."

"Leave that to me," Mary answered.

Matthew gave her a sharp look. "Please don't say anything until we've agreed to this path."

"Of course." She smiled. "I'm in no rush."

He frowned. "But you seemed in quite a rush to have this conversation."

"I can begin looking at the advertisements in the papers to gain a sense of the available properties and what we might be able to expect. You should give me a sum to consider. That would help me to narrow the circle, and avoid bringing you proposals that you'll only have to reject."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're quite serious about this."

"The best way to make the transition to a middle-class living is to prepare myself for it." She smiled. "I am confident I will find the means to do more than you expect."

He chuckled and gave her a lopsided grin. "If I have learned anything in five years of marriage to you, it is that you will always exceed my expectations. And they are never low to begin with."

She grinned and let him kiss her, and then they settled comfortably together as he began to read his book aloud.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Matthew frowned, turning the faded map and squinting at it. "I don't think the top of this map is actually north," he said, glancing at his compass.

Tom made a notation in the portfolio and shaded his eyes with the hand that held his pencil. "This saw mill hasn't seen use in years, but it looks essentially solid. The wheel doesn't show much sign of rot. Water levels are low, but that's because the dam works are down. I wonder why they stopped running it."

"It was probably less expensive to plane the boards elsewhere," Matthew answered absently. "Then you don't have to maintain the mill workers."

Tom grunted and made another notation.

"You could ask Sir Rupert tonight at dinner," Matthew said, finally sighing and starting to roll up the map. He dropped the compass into his satchel.

Tom grimaced. "I don't think the man likes me very much."

"Perhaps if you'd let him get a word in edgewise, you might discover he's not such a bad sort."

"He's refused to acknowledge my presence for nearly the whole time we've been here!"

Matthew gave a short laugh. "You're exaggerating."

"You just watch. Tonight, if I say something provoking, see if he responds."

"You don't make it easy for him. You really think you can recruit him for Sinn Féin?"

Tom chuckled and shook his head.

Securing the rolled-up map's string, Matthew tucked the large scroll under his arm and tossed his head towards the car. "It's getting late. Let's go back and exchange notes before we have to change for dinner."

Tom closed his portfolio and fell into step beside Matthew. "Has Murray been at you again?"

"No," Matthew answered with a sigh. "But if you keep this up, I wouldn't be surprised if Sir Rupert had words with him again. We can't afford to lose a client over this. I promised Murray he wouldn't regret hiring you, but he'll sack us both if we're not careful."

Tom scowled. "If  _I'm_  not careful, you mean. I won't be silenced just because I have an unpopular opinion. I won't compromise."

"Rome didn't fall in a day. Choose your battles. You're not going to win this one. Why give a vocal opponent to Irish nationalism more reason to believe he's right?"

Tom frowned.

"Do you mind if I drive?" Matthew asked, as they approached the car.

"Of course not." Tom smirked at him. "You could use the practice."

Matthew gave Tom a chagrined look of amusement as they put their things in the boot. He went round to the front of the car and turned the hand crank to prime the motor, then cranked it to life. When he climbed into the driver's seat, Tom settled in beside him.

"I'm not a bad driver," Matthew protested, over the rumbling of the motor.

"Just make it through one day without grinding the gears," Tom replied with a wince.

"Challenge accepted!" Matthew grinned, and they pulled out smoothly on to the road.

* * *

"Now  _The Common Cause_ wants her to be a regular contributor," Anthony said proudly, glancing at Edith, who blushed slightly and pushed her carrots around on her dinner plate.

"There's no need to feign modesty," Mary observed sharply, and Edith shot her a hard look.

"I'm not," she replied. "I just don't see the need to preen."

"I'm quite proud of Edith," Cora interjected, smiling. "To have a nationally-recognised writer in the family is no small thing."

Robert shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not terribly keen on having the family name dragged through the same mud as the madwomen who chain themselves to the palace railings."

"But the family name  _isn't_  being dragged through the mud, Papa," Edith protested. "My  _nom de plume_  is 'Lady Edith Strallan'."

"True, but anyone who enquires after you will easily discover the origin of your title," Violet said, setting down her glass of wine. She made a passing glance at Sir Anthony. "But as your husband does not object to your activities—" Violet gave Robert a significant look. "—we can hardly have an opinion."

Robert frowned and continued eating.

"What has Edward been up to these days?" Anthony asked, and Cora gave him a grateful smile.

"Oh, any number of things," she answered. "He likes to read. He's been devouring Beatrix Potter of late."

"So Miss Goldthwaite's been a success, then?" Isobel asked.

"Oh yes, she's very good with him. Patient, but firm."

"She has the patience of a saint," Robert agreed, looking heavenward.

"We'll need to find a governess for Harry soon," Edith sighed. "It's such a strange thought, how quickly they're growing up! Sylvia's speech is so much clearer than his already. And she tells the most charming stories with her dollies." At this, Anthony and Edith glanced at each other and chuckled.

"What?" Cora asked.

"One of her dolls is a very vocal suffragist," Anthony explained. "She protests 'patwichal oppwession' and asserts her right to do all sorts of things."

Robert frowned. "Such as?"

"Most recently, not eating her peas."

A chuckle ran through everyone seated at the table.

"I, for one, look forward to seeing what the next generation will do with the world," Isobel pronounced. "I think things will change for the better."

"What's so wrong with how the world is now?" Violet asked.

"Although the existence of the upper classes seems idyllic—" Isobel began.

"Oh, hardly," Violet replied. "It's under attack from every side!"

"And you wonder how the state of things could be improved," Isobel shot back.

Robert cleared his throat and both women lifted their chins and arranged themselves with great poise.

"Speaking of which, how's Sybil getting on?" Anthony asked. "I've missed seeing her lately."

Mary heaved a great sigh, and Cora responded with a disapproving glare that encompassed Robert in the same sweep.

"Well," Isobel answered cheerfully, having taken in the whole exchange. "She's made great strides since the start of the summer."

"But is it enough?" Robert asked, not quite looking at Isobel. "How can a girl, educated only by a governess at a remote country estate, have a hope of competing for a position at a top medical school in London? It's madness!"

"I disagree," Violet said calmly, and everyone turned to look at her in surprise. "What?" she asked, gesturing with her glass. "Is it more mad than canvassing the whole county, or going to political rallies and getting herself knocked unconscious?"

Robert pressed his lips together and glared at the centrepiece, while Violet shared a careful glance with Mary, who gave a subtle nod before taking a sip of her wine.

"You're just worried she might succeed," Edith said to Robert.

"Her devotion to this scheme surprises me, I'll admit," Cora put in, when he didn't respond. "Dr Clarkson told me she's a splendid nurse, but I'm not sure she's truly suited to being a doctor."

"I agree," Violet put in. At Isobel's incensed look, Violet shrugged. "What? I admire her ambition, but she has a mountain to scale, and very few tools to do it. I suspect she hasn't the faintest idea what's truly in store for her. Becoming a doctor is difficult enough for a man, but she's a woman."

"It's at moments like this when I perfectly grasp Sybil's willingness to have her head bashed in," Isobel said.

"I don't see  _you_  chaining yourself to a fence," Violet replied.

" _My_  father and grandmother supported my ambitions," Isobel answered. "I didn't feel the need."

"Bully for you," Edith said. "But not everyone is so lucky. And Granny's right; she's not putting Sybil down. Sybil is going to have an awful, uphill battle  _because_  she's a woman.  _I_  think she'll succeed brilliantly." Edith finished this with a nod.

Robert frowned, and Carson bent to refill his glass before stepping back again. Thomas began clearing the plates for the next course.

Cora gave Robert a placating smile. "I think Sybil is very clever and no one should underestimate her."

"She was always the most academic of us," Mary agreed, also giving her father a calming smile. "Her bookcase in the library has long been filled with advanced titles, most of which I can barely pronounce."

"Do you remember when she tried to convince Papa to hire a maths tutor?" Edith asked, chuckling.

Mary nodded. "She'd moved beyond what Miss Granger could teach her. It's only too bad she was born a girl. If she'd been a boy, Papa would have been pleased to see such intelligence and enthusiasm."

"Enough!" Robert snapped, making everyone jump. "I am  _not_  the Bogeyman." He lowered his voice; still commanding, but more measured now. "I have only ever done my utmost to ensure that all of three of you would have the best prospects possible."

"True," Mary replied in a conciliatory tone. "It is not your fault that more men do not appreciate a wife with a formidable wit."

"How is Matthew?" Cora asked. "I do miss him so."

"He'll be home for the weekend," Mary replied. "I believe he's well, but eager for a rest."

"Aren't we all," Violet sighed.

* * *

"I've heard Matthew is doing well," Anthony remarked, accepting a tumbler of port from Carson. "I ran into Sir Percy Lankhurst at my club, and we got to talking and he recommended a 'nice young chap, this Crawley fellow', whom his solicitor sent up. As a result of Matthew's report, Sir Percy was able to get some new capital to invest in improvements, which his land agent has been clamoring to try, apparently. When I told him that Matthew is my brother-in-law, Sir Percy didn't have enough kind things to say about him, and his partner, a Mr Branson, I believe."

Carson, who had just then approached carrying the open box of cigars, stiffened with a sharp intake of breath and a disapproving expression. Robert glanced up at the butler, giving him a look of understanding, then selected a cigar.

"What?" Anthony asked, glancing between the two men.

Robert grimaced and snipped the end off the cigar. " _Mr_  Branson was our chauffeur."

Anthony's eyes widened as his mouth fell open. Robert nodded, giving him a look of distaste.

"Well, in any case," Anthony said, chuckling, "Sir Percy was pleased. I thought you'd like to know. Perhaps I'll have Matthew and this Branson fellow up for a look around my estate. I'm always interested in seeing what new potential we can explore."

"You already seem to be doing rather well, if Edith is to be believed," Robert said, accepting the box of matches from Carson.

"Oh, we are, but only because she's constantly trying new things." Anthony grinned. "She keeps me on my toes. There's always a test field here or there for something." He sobered. "It's the only way to stay ahead of things. The world is changing; she understands that we have to change with it."

Robert frowned as he struck a match and returned the box to Carson, who then offered the cigars and matches to Anthony.

"I'm just grateful I have the resources to try new things, especially now, when it seems so many estates are being sold up." Anthony declined the boxes with a wave of his hand, and Carson silently moved away, setting them down on the tray beside the decanter before exiting the room. "Did you hear the news about Thirkleby?"

Robert nodded and frowned as he carefully lit his cigar. He waved out the match and dropped it on the ashtray, exhaling smoke. "Sad business, that. Young William was their beloved son in their old age, and with Sir Ralph now passed on as well, I can understand why the family is selling up."

"Oh, certainly. I don't fault them for it. How could anyone?" Anthony gave a heavy sigh and winced slightly as he adjusted his position. "Sometimes, it all just seems like such a damned waste. So many young men, on both sides..."

"The treaty is signed and Germany has been set back significantly. We've dealt Prussianism a mortal blow. They won't be able to cause any more trouble."

Anthony frowned, his fingers playing in an agitated fashion with his tumbler. "The bottom had fallen out of their economy; they were desperate and easily manipulated. We mustn't fault them too harshly."

"They forced us all to pay an awful, staggering cost for their foolishness! I fault them  _entirely_."

"Kaiser Bill was foolish, but most of the poor sods in the trenches didn't want to be there any more than we did."

"They still went along with it," Robert retorted, making an angry gesture with his cigar. "And they're going to be down for a good, long while, if His Majesty's government has anything say about it."

Anthony's frown deepened. "I know. But heaping more punishment on them isn't going to end well. If I know anything about the men who were involved in the treaty negotiations—and I know more than I wish to—it's not going to end well at all. Sometimes..." Anthony trailed off with a shake of his head and he stilled his restless fingers, looking away.

Robert frowned. "Sometimes what?"

Anthony sighed and met Robert's gaze. "Sometimes I fear for Harry."

"Harry?"

Anthony nodded. "What will he face when he's become a man? What will the world be like? What legacy will we have left behind for him, for his whole generation?"

Robert's face cleared and he relaxed back in his chair, taking another draw on his cigar. He exhaled. "We'll have left him a world at peace. This war was so terrible, so vast... There won't be another. It was surely 'the war to end all wars'. No one would be willing to pay that kind of cost again."

But Anthony only shook his head, wincing as he shifted in his seat once more.

Robert sat forward. "I say, man, are you quite all right?"

Anthony gave him a weak smile. "I wouldn't mind sinking into one of your comfortable armchairs in the sitting room," he admitted.

Robert chuckled. "Yes, I know what you mean. These dining room chairs are very fine, but a bit...stiff on the joints, eh?" At Anthony's relieved nod, Robert gave his cigar a slightly chagrined look, then set it down in its tray and took a final swallow of his port. "Shall we join the ladies?"

As the two men rose to cross to the door, Robert frowned thoughtfully, Anthony's words echoing in his mind. What kind of legacy was he going to leave behind for Edward? Even if all his investments paid off handsomely, the estate wasn't prepared to adjust to a changing reality, and the capital would only last so long. Perhaps he'd better glance through Matthew's restructuring proposal, to see if there was anything there worth looking into.

* * *

"For  _too long_  the British have been waging a campaign to destroy our identity, our right to own land, our freedom of education, our ability to maintain our own courts and police, and a mountain of other outrages that violate the basic laws of human decency," Tom growled, his voice low and tight with controlled rage. "The British  _created_  this strife when they founded their abominable  _plantations_  and forced out the rightful Irish landholders!"

"Oh, please," Sir Rupert Pratt bit out, his own anger growing more visible despite his veneer of politeness. "That was hundreds of years ago. The strife here now is not the fault of British rule. We've tried  _twice_  in the last three years to institute Home Rule, but you lot can't pull your heads out of your arses long enough to agree on whether the sky is blue."

Peter, Sir Rupert's teenage son and heir, snickered at this, and Matthew exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Lady Margaret. Her expression was distressed and her small, nervous gestures uncertain.

Matthew shifted forward, setting his glass of brandy on the side-table. "Well, now that Sinn Féin's won in a landslide during the general election, perhaps the Irish voice in Parliament will be able to advocate more effectively for a Home Rule solution—"

But Tom wouldn't be suppressed. "No Home Rule 'solution' is going to solve anything as long as Ireland remains carved into two pieces! Either we stand together or we don't stand at all!"

Matthew was swiftly considering and discarding options for how to politely extract himself and Tom from the after-dinner debacle when Taft, Sir Rupert's butler, approached and bent to speak.

"Pardon me, but there's a telephone call for you, sir."

Matthew gave a nod, barely suppressing a sigh of relief, and quickly stood. "Please excuse me," he said to Lady Margaret, expanding his glance to take in her husband and son. Briefly widening his eyes in warning at Tom, Matthew turned and followed Taft from the room.

Taft indicated the telephone and Matthew lifted the receiver to his ear as the butler strode away.

"Matthew Crawley speaking."

"Good evening, Mr Crawley." Mary's voice was playfully formal.

Matthew chuckled. "I miss you," he said in a low voice, wishing that Sir Rupert's telephone weren't prominently displayed in the grand entranceway, where anyone could overhear the conversation. No,  _really_  what Matthew wished was to be back at Downton, retiring early with Mary. His body longed for the touch of hers.

Her voice came through the line, warm but so far away. "Me, too, darling. How is the assessment going? Will you still be home by the weekend?"

"Yes, I think so," he replied. Sir Rupert was becoming thoroughly irritating—how could the man expect him and Tom to compile a proper report in the face of such evasion and stonewalling?—but he could hardly say that to Mary. "Even if a trip home delays our report a day or two, Murray will understand, given your condition. How are you feeling?"

Mary sighed but gave a soft laugh. "Well enough. I can't say I'm particularly eager to endure the actual event, but I  _am_  looking forward to this being over."

Matthew smiled. "At least there's the promise of great joy at the end of the trial."

"Indeed."

"I  _really_  miss you," Matthew repeated, and Mary laughed softly.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to hear that this assessment has been particularly trying," she said, her tone suddenly clear and impersonal, and he imagined that guests were walking past where she stood.

He heard her briefly exchange words with someone and then, "Anthony asked after you and Papa says Godspeed home. He doesn't want to be the only man in the house besides Dr Clarkson when my time comes." Matthew laughed. "Which—" she paused, her voice fading as she turned her head away from the receiver, "—isn't to be for another  _month_." She spoke into the receiver again. "Really, all this concern isn't the least bit necessary."

A dart of fear shot through him. "'All this concern'?"

Mary sighed, and he could practically see her rolling her eyes. He grinned.

"I've had some...pains," she answered carefully, and his smile immediately fell away as he tightened his grip on the telephone stand.

"What?"

"It's nothing, Matthew, really. Dr Clarkson says it's just my body practicing for the birth. It's entirely normal. It's  _healthy_. Edith had them, too, before Harry was born, and Mama says she thinks she had something similar with me."

He relaxed slightly, but only slightly. "God, I wish I was home with you right now."

"Why?" she asked. "You'd just join the legion of people worrying unnecessarily. You'll be summoned immediately if anything important happens."

"But I might not make it in  _time_ ," he answered, wincing.

"In time for what? Once the baby arrives, it's not going to dash off for a tour of the Lake District. You won't  _miss_  it."

"...you  _know_ ," he said.

"Matthew, your mother assures me that I won't want you anywhere nearby when the time comes. She says many women have particularly... _choice_...words for their husbands when they're in midst of it."

Matthew chuckled. "Still, I should like to be there. I'd forgive you anything, darling."

"As you have so thoroughly demonstrated thus far. But I won't be at my best."

"You'll be magnificent."

He could almost see her smile. "Thank you for that. But you're not going to convince me to let you in the room until it's all over and I'm presentable."

Matthew laughed, then glanced about with a sigh, hoping that he hadn't drawn anyone's notice. "I'm grateful we can speak right now, but when we have our own home, the telephone is going to be located somewhere that can be made entirely private."

"An excellent idea. Speaking of which," Mary said, "I've been looking at the London properties up for sale and I have several likely candidates in mind."

"Already?"

"Well, nothing's settled yet, of course, but we can begin to discuss things when you get home."

"I look forward to it. And I'll have two conveyancing contracts and a will revision for you to type up when I return."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Mary replied. "There was a large packet for you from Murray in the post this morning."

"Yes, those should be the contracts."

"Shall I open it and get started as soon as possible?"

"No, I need to look them over first. There are a few irregularities that I need to correct."

"Very well. How long will you be home this time?"

"Just Saturday and Sunday. We'll need to come back directly to finish the work here, but then we'll go down to London for a day. We have two new clients." Matthew sighed. "I'm not sure when we'll get to them. We've already scheduled the next couple month's clients, but we haven't made as much progress here as we were hoping." He glanced over his shoulder, but there was still no one in the entranceway, and he turned back towards the telephone. "We're having a more difficult time than usual."

"Encountering resistance?"

"Yes, something like that."

"I'm surprised it's taken this long, to be honest," Mary observed. "I had expected your partnership to be more problematic."

"He's an excellent partner," Matthew replied, glancing about again. "I don't have any regrets."

"Just complications."

Matthew laughed and looked down at his polished black leather shoes with a sigh. "Yes."

"Will you be able to keep up with the demand?"

"I don't know," he answered. "We're going to do our best."

"Well, don't overwork yourself. You should tell Murray you want a few days off."

"I'll take a few days, when the baby comes. Until then, we can't chuck. This arrangement is too new. Perhaps when we've been at it for more than a year..."

"Just take care of yourself, darling. Don't stay up too late working."

"You take care, too."

"Come home soon to me."

"I will. I love you."

Mary lowered her voice, softening her tone. "I love you, too, darling." And after a reluctant pause: "Good night."

Matthew pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, imagining her face. "Good night."

He set the mouthpiece down on its hook, then straightened his clothing. He heard raised voices coming from the sitting room and sighed, bracing himself as he walked back into the fray.

* * *

"Is Matthew well?" Violet asked Mary, watching her set down the telephone. Robert came to stand beside his mother and daughter, waiting as Carson fetched Violet's things. Tyres rumbled on the gravel outside as March pulled the car up in front of the house.

"Yes, he's well," Mary responded, smiling. Her hand drifted briefly over her belly and then she straightened, regained her usual bearing. "He'll be home in two days."

"I'm glad to hear it." Violet allowed Carson to help her into her coat. "Has Lady Sybil returned yet?"

"No, Your Ladyship," Carson replied. "I believe she's still at Crawley House."

"She certainly seems to be working hard," Violet replied in an approving tone.

"A bit too hard, if you ask me," Robert said sourly. "We haven't seen her at dinner in three days."

"I should think you'd be relieved by that, Papa," Mary answered, eyeing him before looking at Violet, who lifted her chin as she watched them. "In any case, I admire her for it. If she succeeds, she'll need to work at least this hard to keep her place."

Violet made a noise of agreement and Robert pressed his lips together, conceding the point. He put on a smile and loosely clasped his hands behind his back. "Anthony says he's heard good things at his club about Matthew."

"Truly?" Mary's brow furrowed. "I hadn't thought enough time has passed for any of their reports to have had a measurable effect yet."

"Perhaps the ideas themselves have obvious merit," Violet observed, stepping out as Carson held the front door open. "Good night, Mary. Robert."

"Good night, Mama," Robert answered, frowning slightly as Mary's voice echoed the words beside him. They watched Violet climb into the car, and they turned back towards the great hall when the vehicle pulled away, its headlights glowing in the darkness.

Mary raised an eyebrow at Robert. "Perhaps they do," she said, then smiled. "I'll think I'll retire. Good night, Papa."

"Good night," he murmured, watching her retreating figure. When she'd gone round the corner towards her bedroom, he glanced at the library door with a small frown. Perhaps he ought to pull out Matthew's proposal now and glance through it. Then he could sleep on it and ring Jarvis in the morning.

Robert went into the library and turned on the standing lamp near his filing drawers. He approached the drawers, but something caught his eye and he paused, turning towards it.

Sybil's bookcase.

He'd never really  _looked_  at it before, but now as his eyes scanned the shelves and he bent to read several of the spines of the tallest books, he blinked and frowned.

_Principia Mathematica_

_Disquisitiones Arithmeticae_

_Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica_

_Elementary Treatise of Chemistry_

_On the Origin of Species_

_Gray's Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical_

_Every Woman's Encyclopaedia_

_The Grammar of Science_

There was even half a shelf dedicated to the  _Mémoires de l'Académie royale des sciences de l'Institut de France_ , dated 1911-1919. Why would Sybil subscribe to a French science journal?

As his fingers brushed over the many titles, he murmured some of them aloud, recognising Sir Isaac Newton's work, as well as Charles Darwin's and the philosophy of science text, but the rest remained a mystery to him. Mary had been right. Some words even he struggled to pronounce, and as he straightened, wincing slightly at a twinge in his back, he felt a cold weight settle into the pit of his stomach.

 _What have I done?_  he asked, swallowing and blinking back a sudden and unexpected sting of tears. He remembered well how much Sybil had begged for him to bring in a maths tutor—" _Any_  tutor, Papa,  _please!_ "—and how he had thought her only a child, wanting to amuse herself with new entertainments, not worth the expense. She'd always been very clever—Mary had been, too—but Sybil, unlike Mary, had never embraced the world of high fashion and social manoeuvring. Mary at least understood the game and the stakes, but Sybil had always stubbornly refused to play. First she'd shown an inordinate amount of interest in how girls were educated in the local schools, with an associated protest about their being excluded from Ripon Grammar; then she'd taken up a charity for fallen women, to Robert's dismay; and finally there was the dreadful obsession with women's suffrage. Her last foray into fashion had been a shocking new frock, in the style of a harem skirt.

He had been hoping she would outgrow these childish rebellions, but despite being quite a success during her debut Season, she hadn't been the least bit interested in snaring a husband. She'd been polite and charming and done her duty, but no match had been forthcoming. Then war had broken out and all the usual plans were put aside. He'd been so relieved when she took up nursing; at least that was an acceptable occupation for young, highborn women during the Great War. He'd thought perhaps her time among the men might have softened her a bit, but now this...

He closed his eyes and put a hand against the edge of the bookcase, feeling the weight of an age on his shoulders.

If she'd been born a boy—and she weren't the heir—he would have been delighted to hire a legion of tutors. He would have been proud of a son's academic acuity and he wouldn't have hesitated to brag of the boy's achievements. He would have sent the boy to Eton and Oxford and watched, pleased, as the young man distinguished himself in some fashion. What else was a younger son of an earl to do, to make his way in the world?

But a daughter. A  _daughter_  was expected to marry well, to raise children, to elevate and preserve her husband's social status. A girl with a fearsome intellect was only a long series of problems to be averted. Sybil understood too much to be silenced, but she didn't have the agency to make much use of her knowledge. Of  _course_  she would chafe at the constricting world she was born into. Of course she would kick against the traces and go behind her father's back and against his will.

He'd had a treasure in his hands for  _years_  and he'd been completely blind to it, able only to see her actions as a continuation of childish, wilful disobedience. He missed her bright eyes and lively, loving warmth. Oh, she still smiled and shone, but now more often than not, her eyes filled with hurt when he spoke.

 _What have I done?_  he asked again, his heart twisting in his chest.


	33. Chapter 33

_33_

Mary drew in a sharp breath as her abdomen cramped again, suddenly growing tight and aching. She let her book fall to the bed and pressed her fingers against her sore belly.

 _It's just my body practicing_ , she repeated to herself, closing her eyes.  _This is entirely normal._

But it was difficult to feel reasonable when dull pains kept intruding. They were only occasional this evening, but they were just frequent enough to be distracting whenever she tried to read. Perhaps her body was trying to tell her it wanted her to sleep. She was particularly enjoying her novel, however, and wanted to finish just one more chapter...

With a sigh of relief, she felt the ache recede, but then the baby kicked  _hard_ , jabbing a foot up under her ribs, making her suddenly hiss and straighten.

"All right, little one, I'll  _lie down_ ," Mary replied sharply, trying to dig her hand under her ribs to push the foot—or whatever it was—back down. When she could breathe again, she gave a rueful laugh. "You're quite demanding, aren't you? Very well—" Mary grunted as she moved to lie down, twisting gingerly to put the book on the bedside table. "—no more reading for tonight."

She was about to reach up to put out the lamp when she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall upstairs, and then the sound of a door being closed. The boards creaked slightly overhead. Sybil had returned.

Relieved that her sister was home safely, Mary reached for the lamp again, but suddenly drew back with a wince when the muscles in her abdomen protested.

This  _was_ normal, wasn't it?

Mary suddenly wanted to speak to Sybil. Sybil wasn't a  _real_  nurse, of course, but she had been attending several births lately, assisting Dr Clarkson. Perhaps Sybil would know what to do to help these practice cramps subside. And Mary wanted to  _move_. She was tired, but the prospect of lying in bed alone wasn't very appealing. For all her brave words to Matthew earlier, she suddenly wished he were near, holding her. He'd probably massage her back and hum softly to the baby, and she'd relax as this all just went away.

But Matthew wasn't here. And the pain wasn't going away on its own.

Her heart pounding, Mary pushed herself up, swung her legs to the floor, and pushed her toes into her slippers. She padded over to the armchair and picked up her robe, shrugging it on a little awkwardly. She could ring for someone to bring up a glass of milk or some such thing, but all the servants were probably readying themselves for bed.

She pulled her gown securely around her shoulders and went out. Climbing the stairs to see Sybil was probably a bit foolish, but Mary was tired of being intimidated by such simple tasks. She would just pause at the top and catch her breath before she went to see Sybil, to avoid being scolded. It was silly, really, but Mary dreaded being made to sit down and endure another lecture. After all, she had been climbing this staircase since she was old enough to walk.

It took her longer than she would have liked to reach the top, but she was breathing well and it didn't hurt overmuch. She paused with her hand on the railing and waited a few moments until she was sure she wasn't audibly wheezing. Relieved to see a faint line of light under Sybil's door, Mary approached it and knocked quietly.

Sybil, looking weary, with her hair unbound but her nursing apron still on, pulled open the door. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, Mary, dear, is something the matter?" Sybil blinked and frowned. "Did you just climb the stairs?"

"Of course I climbed the stairs," Mary replied, breezing into the room—or doing her best approximation, given her condition. "Granny asked after you this evening. I'm glad you got in safely. Was there another birth?"

"No, James Prouth got trapped under an overturned cart and was bleeding internally. I observed the emergency surgery."

Mary nodded, but a practice cramp made her wince and inhale sharply, so she paced the room and breathed through it, taking in her surroundings. Sybil's headwrap lay on the bed and she'd tossed her handbag on the vanity. When Mary noticed an uncovered plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of water on a nearby tray, her stomach rumbled.

Sybil chuckled. "Is that why you came up? You can have one if you like." Then she frowned and looked at Mary more closely. "Are you quite all right?"

Mary gave her a tight smile, breathing as she paced. "I'm...having practice cramps again." She rubbed at the sides of her belly before dropping her hands. "When I heard you come in, it occurred to me that you might know something to help them pass."

"How far apart are they?" Sybil asked, her voice a bit sharper than Mary would have liked.

Mary shrugged, pacing past the bedpost and running her hand along it. "A few minutes."

"Less than ten?"

Mary frowned. "Perhaps. I can't recall."

"How long have they been happening?"

Mary sighed with relief as her muscles relaxed again. "Only the last hour or so. Usually they fade when I shift position. I was sitting in bed, reading, but I had to put the book down. They were becoming too distracting." She frowned. "They're beginning to hurt. Walking seems to help."

"Perhaps we should ring Dr Clarkson," Sybil said.

Mary gave a dismissive huff. "He's probably exhausted. I wouldn't want to summon him for nothing. Besides, it's a month too soon. Edith had the doctor coming at the drop of a hat. I'm not going to repeat her mistake."

Sybil looked unconvinced, but she took a quick swallow of water, then picked up a sandwich and gestured to the door. "You're pacing like a great cat in a cage. Let's walk the halls downstairs. I can eat and walk with you."

They went down quietly to avoid rousing anyone and began a circuit of the ground floor, passing the familiar rooms, then drifting past rooms they hadn't explored since they were children. Sybil turned on the lights as they entered a darkened hallway, and Mary blew out a breath, easing her body through another cramp.

"We haven't seen much of you lately," Mary observed, trying to distract herself with conversation.

Sybil shrugged. "I've been busy."

Mary chuckled. " _That's_  an understatement. I don't think any of us realised how serious you were about this."

"I know," Sybil answered softly. "I'm accustomed to that."

"So how are you, really?" Mary asked, expecting a tedious enumeration of the trials and tribulations of preparing for medical school. It would pass the time, at least.

But Sybil's shoulders fell and she sighed. "I don't know what to do about Tom."

Mary gave Sybil a sharp look. "Is he becoming troublesome? I can have Matthew pack him off, just say the word."

Sybil sighed again. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just—" Sybil paused. Mary stopped beside her and frowned until Sybil met her gaze. "I know you don't approve of Tom," Sybil said, "but I love him."

"It doesn't matter whether  _I_  approve of him," Mary answered. "Only whether you do. But for the record—" She began walking again, and Sybil fell into step. "—I don't  _dislike_  Tom. He seems a good sort." She eyed Sybil. "Unless he's done something that he oughtn't."

"No, he hasn't," Sybil repeated. "He has always been a perfect gentleman." She briefly pressed her fingers to her lips, then dropped her hand, smoothing out her apron. "We haven't even kissed in  _weeks_." Her shoulders fell again. "Oh,  _Mary_." And Sybil half-turned and burst into tears.

Surprised, Mary stopped, reaching out to awkwardly put an arm around her sister's shoulders in a sideways embrace. After a long moment, Mary fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of her robe and offered it to Sybil, who took it and dried her face.

"Thank you," Sybil managed. She took a few moments to compose herself, then drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and began walking again. Mary frowned, but continued alongside her, waiting for her to speak.

"I've just been so  _busy_ ," Sybil explained, a slight quaver still in her voice. She cleared her throat. "I don't feel I can spare a moment. When I finish a lesson with Cousin Isobel, Miss Bunting comes for Latin. When Miss Bunting's lesson is done, I work a shift at the hospital, and when things are slow there, Dr Clarkson drills me on anatomy and physics. And I'm such a dunderhead at physics!"

Sybil looked as though she were fighting tears again, but after a few seconds, she won the battle and they continued walking.

Her voice shook. "I'm just so terribly afraid he's going to throw me over!"

Mary frowned. "Dr Clarkson?"

"No," Sybil answered. "Tom!"

Mary gave Sybil a disbelieving look. "That man isn't going anywhere, Sybil. Haven't you seen the way he looks at you? It's like he's afraid you're going to throw  _him_  over."

Sybil swallowed. "I know. Oh...!" She balled up her fists, then dropped them wearily. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can make time for him and do all of this as well!"

Mary nodded as they kept walking.

"I miss him," Sybil whispered.

"You wish you were already married."

"Yes. Very much."

"That wouldn't make the problem go away, you know," Mary said. "He would require  _more_  of your time, not less."

Sybil looked at her and nodded. "I know. But at least we'd have a few hours together each day. The nights, at least."

"When you'd likely want to be enjoying a few rare hours of  _rest_ ," Mary answered, arching an eyebrow.

Sybil's eyes widened. "A man would...keep me awake?"

Mary suppressed a smile. "It's been known to happen."

"Oh," Sybil replied with a slight frown. After a moment, she blushed and looked straight ahead, appearing to digest the revelation. Then: " _Every_  night?"

Mary chuckled. "No. I doubt  _every_  night. But being a wife...it has its benefits, certainly, but it comes with obligations, too. Men are...different, in some ways." She frowned, uncomfortable and unwilling to expose her own and Matthew's private concerns. But she also knew Sybil was probably burning with curiosity and unlikely to find answers elsewhere. Mary was torn; she wanted to warn Sybil away from rushing into anything with Tom, but she didn't want Sybil to be afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of, not if Sybil married a man who would treat her well. Tom  _had_  proven himself to be a gentleman and a man of his word, and he had quickly earned and retained Matthew's respect. That counted for quite a lot in Mary's view.

She pursed her lips and reached for the next light switch in the hall. The lamps flickered on as they continued walking.

"You seem to..." Sybil looked at Mary.

"Yes?" Mary asked, amusement warring with trepidation.

Sybil blushed and swallowed, but didn't look away. "...enjoy your marriage."

Mary smiled. "Oh, I do. Very much."

"I'll be honest, I never thought you would marry for love."

"I can well believe it," Mary replied dryly. "But Matthew...changed me."

"Yes," Sybil said, smiling. "You're much nicer to be around now."

"I suspect that has more to do with Edith  _not_  being around," Mary answered, lifting her chin.

"No, it's more than that," Sybil pressed on. "You seem...more at peace. You smile more,  _really_  smile. I don't expect you to say something clever and biting all the time."

"Just most of the time."

Sybil laughed.

"It comes down to what you'll regret more," Mary said. "Pushing Tom away, or not becoming a physician." She paused. "When Aunt Rosamund told me I should put off the wedding until after Edward was born, I understood how sensible that advice was, but my heart rebelled. I knew if I did that to Matthew, after how well he'd treated me, I'd regret it always."

"That's...unusually romantic of you." Sybil gave Mary an amused look.

"Blame Matthew. He makes me sit through readings of Keats and Lord Byron, I tell you."

"He  _does_  have a nice voice," Sybil teased.

"A very nice one," Mary answered with a smirk, her cheeks warming, but she kept her cool bearing as she walked. "You see my problem."

Sybil chuckled and shook her head. "'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'"

"Perhaps," Mary replied with a smile, "but you understand what I'm saying."

"Yes, but who would I be if I gave up trying to make a difference, to achieve something of worth, just to be with a man? I'd be like every other woman in history who had a chance to fight for equality, but let herself be convinced to stay silent, to keep other people happy. It's why we're in this dreadful situation now. I can't in good conscience allow it to go on unchallenged. We're fighting not just for ourselves, but for our daughters, and our granddaughters."

Mary stopped and turned to look at Sybil. "Why are you doing this? Do you really want to be a doctor, or are you trying to make a spectacle of yourself?"

Sybil frowned. "I  _think_  I want to be a doctor. If it weren't for Tom, I wouldn't be questioning myself."

"So he's holding you back."

"No..." Sybil's brows furrowed more deeply. "He's asking me to treat him as I would have him treat me. What would be the point of becoming a doctor if I must mistreat others to achieve it? It would be a hollow victory." She returned to walking, and Mary joined her again. "I want it all, Mary. I want to be with him,  _and_  I want to be a physician."

"How do men do it?" Mary asked. "Men become doctors and marry."

"Cousin Isobel said that many of them wait to marry until after they're established. Apparently, Cousin...Reginald was a bit older than she was when they married."

"Yes, so I've heard."

"So what am I to do? Even with the best possible outcome, it may be many years before I would be established. I can't ask Tom to wait endlessly for me, hanging his life and his future happiness on a mere unfulfilled promise. And we can't make the announcement now, either. It's not just Papa. I suspect that if Dr Clarkson knew about Tom it would be the end of my tutoring. If our engagement became public knowledge, I don't know if a medical school would even let me sit the exam." Sybil gave an agitated growl and stepped with more vehemence. "Oh! I hate this unfairness!"

"I'm not certain it's unfairness," Mary answered carefully, raising a hand when Sybil flashed her an angry glare. "Hear me out. Marriage requires more of a woman than it does of a man. Minding the household and the children, that's a woman's role. There isn't much time left over for a career outside the home. It is just the practical reality."

"But it doesn't  _have_  to be, Mary, that's what I'm saying."

"What  _are_  you saying? That you want  _Tom_  to stay home and mind the house and children?"

"No, of course not. We could hire servants..."

"But will you have the means? Keeping servants has always required a great deal of money and it's only increasing. Mama has complained of how difficult it is becoming to find good help. And do you really want your children to be wholly raised by servants?"

Sybil smirked. " _We_  didn't turn out so badly for it."

"True," Mary acknowledged. "But Mama and Papa were almost always nearby. You'd be in a hospital ward or an office somewhere." Mary smiled. "And I doubt Mama taking a more involved approach would have worked out better."

"She's been quite attentive with Edward, though," Sybil observed thoughtfully. "He's a lovely little boy."

"He's a spoilt child," Mary retorted. "He's permitted to do all sorts of things we were never allowed to do."

"Oh, he's not all  _that_  bad."

Mary sighed, recalling how Edward had always lifted Matthew's spirits when Matthew was in his wheelchair. Edward was a little tyrant at times, true, but he could also be quite sensitive and charming.

"No, I suppose not," Mary conceded. "But the point remains: a physician's life is a demanding one. When would you have time to tend to your marriage, your children, or your household? Your time won't be your own. If you think these long days are tiring, how will you manage when you have your own practice, and you won't be able to simply walk away from your patients and leave the ultimate responsibility for them to someone else? Are you ready for that responsibility? What will you do if you make a mistake and someone dies?"

Sybil gave a shaky laugh. "I thought I was walking with you for  _your_  sake, but I wonder now if all along you were planning to convince me to give up this 'mad plan', as Papa calls it."

Mary frowned. "I'm not trying to convince you either way. I'm just asking you questions that you should already be asking yourself."

"I know," Sybil sighed. "The problem is, I don't have the answers yet."

"Well, you don't have to have them all right now, at least. And if you don't make the entrance, this will be moot."

"But what if I  _do_  make the entrance?"

"Matthew and I will ensure that you and Tom have a good long while together to discuss how you want to proceed. And then we'll support your decision, whatever you choose."

Sybil turned and smiled, giving Mary a sudden hug. "You are such a dear!"

Mary grunted in surprise and regained her balance, making a shushing sound, but it quickly turned into a hiss of pain as her abdomen cramped so suddenly that the force of it shocked her. She put one hand against the wall and cradled her belly with the other.

Sybil held her steady. "That's it, deep breaths. In...and out. You can do this."

"It  _hurts_." Mary whimpered and squeezed her eyes closed.

"Just breathe," Sybil answered gently. "This will pass."

Mary grit her teeth. "God! Not quickly enough." She blew out a series of short breaths.

When the cramp had passed, Mary felt drained. The baby moved, restless, so Mary rubbed her hand soothingly over her belly. "Don't come yet, little one," she murmured. "It's too soon."

"I'm going to ring Dr Clarkson," Sybil said. "Let's walk to the telephone."

"But it's too late in the evening," Mary protested.

"Nonsense," Sybil replied. "Come along."

Mary gave a rueful laugh. "You sound like Isobel."

"Good," Sybil answered in a clipped tone. "That's the idea."

Mary laughed again, and when she saw Sybil's smile, she relaxed a little. "All right," Mary said with a sigh. "All right."

* * *

"Well,  _that_  was a great deal more productive." Matthew set the box of ledgers and maps down into the back of the car. He straightened up with a sigh, squinting as the late-afternoon sun broke through a small opening in the clouds.

Tom grunted in agreement, setting down a box of his own before stepping back and closing the boot. "It's amazing what you can accomplish when you can actually get the information you need. He should have sent us out here first thing."

"He's just afraid," Matthew replied. "I think he knows what's coming, and he doesn't want to face it."

Matthew was speaking of Sir Rupert Pratt, but Tom couldn't help the way the words echoed inside his head, pointing an accusing finger at  _him_. Frowning, he remained silent as he went round to the front of the car and cranked the motor to life. Climbing into the driver's seat, he shifted into neutral as Matthew got himself settled on the passenger side and dropped his satchel on the floor between his feet. When Matthew straightened up, Tom pulled the car out on to the road and they headed back to Sir Rupert's Mount Cartin estate.

Tom was looking forward to being done with this assessment. Just the sight of Sir Rupert set his teeth on edge, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. But more than escaping Sir Rupert, Tom wanted to see Sybil. He'd been turning the words over and over in his mind while he lay in bed each night, thinking first of one scenario, then another, for how the conversation with her might go. Mrs Crawley had given him a great deal to think about, and much of it filled him with uncertainty.

Would Sybil really go through with her plans? If she failed to make her entrance, would he just be a consolation prize, and would she come to resent him for being second best? Would he  _be_  second best? There was already so much distance between them. Had they truly bridged it? He'd been so sure of her before, but now, not seeing her each day, not being able to exchange letters with her for fear of being found out, he didn't know any more.

And if she succeeded at making her entrance, where would that leave him? Would they still marry? Would he be willing to wait for her to finish? If they didn't wait, would she be forced to leave medical school? And if that happened, would she come to resent him there, too? He couldn't see a way through the morass and it left a cold bar of iron twisting in his belly.

"You've been very quiet," Matthew observed, over the rattling of the motor. "I thought you'd have a fresh complaint about Sir Rupert this morning, but I haven't heard a word about a unified Ireland all day."

Tom managed a tight smile, but he otherwise didn't respond, except to glance briefly at Matthew before returning his eyes to the road.

"I won't press you if you don't want to talk about it," Matthew said. "I have no wish to poke my nose in where it isn't wanted."

"It's not that," Tom answered. "It's just...I don't know where to begin."

"Have I done something to offend you?"

"What? No, of course not."

Matthew relaxed slightly.

"It's..." Tom swallowed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "...Sybil."

"Ah," Matthew said knowingly, nodding.

Tom snapped his head around to look at Matthew. "Do you know something? Something she's not telling me? Did Lady Mary mention her?"

Matthew frowned. "No, she did not. You sound rather paranoid. What's going on?"

"I'm just...concerned," Tom answered, sagging slightly.

"About what?"

Tom grit his teeth, then blew out an angry breath. "I think she might be planning to throw me over."

"I very much doubt that. What makes you think it?"

Tom looked at Matthew. "Why do you doubt it?"

Matthew shrugged as if the answer were obvious. "It's just not like Sybil to treat anyone that way. She gave you her word." He turned his gaze back out the front window and Tom did the same, looking at the shaded road that led towards the boundary of Mount Cartin. The sun had gone back behind the clouds and the forest here in the valley was dense and dark; even in the brightness of the late summer afternoon, a kind of greyish gloom seemed to hover over the place.

"But she's been so...distant," Tom said.

"Because  _we've_  been travelling," Matthew answered, a slight amusement in his tone.

"No, it's not that. When I last saw her, she was more eager to leave with Dr Clarkson than she was to spend the evening with Mrs Crawley and me."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Truly?"

"Well," Tom admitted. "It  _did_  sound like there was some sort of medical emergency."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head. "Look, I've known Sybil for as long as you have, and I've seen her with other men." Tom shifted uncomfortably, but Matthew just waved his hand dismissively. "She is expected to dance with many men during the Season. She has always been polite and amusing, but she never gave a fig about any of them beyond friendship, that much was obvious. She's not like most women, Tom. She doesn't play the usual games. She's looking further ahead and thinking more deeply about what matters. She's a rare bird." Matthew smiled. "And when she looks at you, she lights up."

Tom sighed, wishing with all his heart that he could believe Matthew's words. But Sybil wasn't only lighting up around him; he'd also seen her annoyance. His last memory of her was when she'd stormed out of Crawley House, leaving him behind. He couldn't forget the scene, and he ached to see her again, to try to make things right between them. He dreaded the moment, too, because it might mean the end of them. He just didn't know, and turning the possibilities round and round in his mind only left him tight and a bit queasy.

"You might laugh at me," Tom said, "but sometimes I think I'm going mad for want of her."

But Matthew only shook his head and gazed out the window. "No... I know exactly what you mean."

Tom frowned, wondering at Matthew's words but unwilling to probe further. Tom didn't pretend to understand it, but he'd sometimes heard Matthew crying out in the night, through the wall separating their rooms. The only panicked word Tom had once been able to make out was "Mary!" He didn't wish to know what nightmares plagued Matthew—Tom could only imagine what four years at war would do to a man—but he suspected that he knew something of how much Matthew struggled with being separated from his wife, particularly now, when her time was so near. Tom could only hope that his friend slept more peacefully when they returned to Downton.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have suggested that you avoid writing," Matthew mused. "I dislike the subterfuge, but I can carry a letter for you this weekend. I'll make sure it finds Sybil without anyone else discovering it."

"I'd rather speak to her in person," Tom replied. "Would lunch in Ripon on Saturday be out of the question?"

"I'll speak with Mary and Sybil," Matthew answered. "I'm sure we can arrange something. Perhaps a picnic on Sunday after Mass? We could bring a basket and meet you at the shaded bluff on the far side of the lake. No one would be suspicious if we asked for extra food—everyone would assume it was for Mary."

Tom nodded. "That would work. Thank you." He managed a smile, still looking out at the road.

"I truly don't think you need to worry, Tom," Matthew said. "Sybil is—"

A loud  _BANG!_  sounded behind them and to their left, and the car twisted and slowed. Matthew instantly threw his arms over his head and hurled himself into a foetal position, curling down as tightly as he could.

Tom's nerves were jangled, but he kept a firm grip on the uncooperative steering wheel until he'd pulled the car off the road and cut the motor. He remained silent and waited for Matthew to slowly uncurl himself.

Matthew was pale as he straightened up, and he pressed shaking palms against his thighs. After a long a moment, he nodded, swallowing and drawing in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. When he noticed Tom's questioning stare, he quickly turned away, climbing out of the car and closing the door.

Tom met him near the rear of the car, where Matthew stood nudging the flat tyre with the toe of his shoe. Tom shrugged off his suit coat, opened the boot, and tossed the garment inside.

"I'll change it," he said, and he began rolling up his sleeves as Matthew stood back and pushed his hands into his pockets.

"How can I help?" Matthew asked, his voice sounding strangely forced.

Tom rummaged in the boot for the necessary supplies. "Untie the spare," he answered, gesturing with the Ford wrench. Then he went round the back of the car and laid the mat beside the blown tyre. Kneeling down, he began jacking up the chassis. Matthew moved to the passenger-side door to take down the spare tyre.

A few short minutes later, Tom had the spare on the axle and was reaching for the lugnuts when a Fiat 501 slowly drove past and then pulled up before them on the road, its motor purring before it cut out. Matthew had been leaning against their Model T Runabout, watching Tom work, but he pushed off when the new car arrived.

"I say, Crawley, is that you?" a voice called.

Tom glanced up at the newcomers with a frown of curiosity as he got to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Mr Napier!" Matthew answered, and grinned as the nearest man approached. "Evelyn. It's good to see you."

"And you, Matthew! What the devil brings you all the way up to Ulster?"

"Oh, my partner and I are doing some consulting work for Sir Rupert Pratt."

"What sort of consulting?" This last, from a new voice. The second man was slightly shorter than Evelyn Napier, with dark hair and a stockier build.

Matthew looked away from Napier with a quick smile, holding out his hand. The new fellow shook it as Napier made introductions.

"Ah, this is my boss, Charles Blake. Charles, Matthew Crawley. Matthew is married to Lord Grantham's eldest daughter and a dear friend of mine, Lady Mary Crawley."

"My only claim to fame," Matthew answered with a smile, arching his eyebrow. Evelyn chuckled, making an apologetic noise, but Matthew just grinned and gestured at Tom, who had come to stand beside him. "Tom Branson, my partner. I take it you already know Mr Napier, Tom?"

Napier held out his hand, frowning slightly. "You do seem a bit familiar—"

"I was Lord Grantham's chauffeur before I became Matthew's partner," Tom answered, lifting his chin.

That elicited raised eyebrows from both Napier and Blake, but Napier didn't withdraw his hand. He merely nodded, giving Tom a firm handshake, and Blake did the same.

"What brings you out here?" Matthew asked the two men.

"We're on something of a reconnoitring expedition, a bit of research for the government," Napier answered.

"We're to assemble a report on the projections for food production and analyze whether there's a fundamental shift underway in the agricultural sector," Blake said.

"We thought we'd start with the closest estate on our list," Napier explained. "So we were just staying at Charles's—"

"I have a distant relation who lives nearby," Blake cut in smoothly. "Sir Severus Blake."

"Ah, yes," Matthew replied. "He came to dine with us early last week."

Tom ground his teeth and glared daggers at Blake, who only smiled affably back at him.

"I don't share Sir Severus's views, if that's what's bothering you," Blake said mildly. "I think the way the Irish have been treated for centuries is utterly deplorable."

"You're not the only one," Matthew agreed, giving Tom a quelling look.

Tom pasted a smile on his face. "It's easy to say the words, but what have you done to end your family's tyranny over the people here?"

Blake chuckled. "Nothing, really. I haven't the power to change anything."

"Yet," Napier agreed, smiling.

Blake frowned at him, then gave Matthew a quick smile. "We should meet up soon and exchange notes. No specifics, of course, but I'd love to hear more about the trends you're observing, particularly problematic areas, that sort of thing."

"We'd be happy to do that, and likewise," Matthew replied, raising his eyebrows at Tom, who gave a grudging nod. "If you're ever nearby, ring us. I'm sure Mary would be delighted to see you again, Evelyn, and I have no doubt Lady Grantham would welcome the pair of you to stay if you decide to 'reconnoitre' Yorkshire."

"What a splendid idea!" Napier grinned. He turned to Blake. "The Crawley family seat is one of the loveliest estates in all of Yorkshire. Unusually, it has something of the look of a gentler, more southern locale."

"I look forward to it," Blake agreed.

Napier turned back to Matthew. "Speaking of Yorkshire, it's such a shame about Thirkleby. Did Lord Grantham know the family?"

"If he did, they weren't close," Matthew replied. "Just out of curiosity, have you seen the notices for Trentham?"

Blake and Napier exchanged a look.

"We have." Napier nodded. "But our sources haven't turned up anything that indicates  _why_  the duke is selling up. There's no shortage of heirs in  _that_  family."

"Perhaps he doesn't see the value in maintaining it any longer," Matthew suggested.

"It just seems such a waste, letting that great estate be sold off in five hundred tiny lots," Napier said.

"More estates would survive if the owners would just put up a decent fight," Blake growled in annoyance, shaking his head. "So few consider income, or the need to adjust to a different way of life."

"I couldn't agree more," Matthew replied, giving him a look of renewed interest, "but land values have been falling for years. If there's no entail limiting the disposal of assets, perhaps there's some appeal in liquidating them and transferring the profits to more lucrative instruments that require less maintainance."

Napier's lip curled. "It all sounds so cold and businesslike. The essential character of the English countryside is defined by these great estates!"

"Not any more," Tom said. "The world is changing. People are more willing to throw off the old yokes."

Napier's eyes flashed at him, but Blake only laughed and clapped a hand on Napier's shoulder. "Our Irish revolutionary friend is right, old chap."

"But I do agree—" Tom continued, softening his voice, "—that it is sad to see a once-great estate bought by greedy developers who will only break it up and sell off the pieces to maximise profits. We're all the poorer for it."

The other three men blinked at him, sobering, and then they all nodded.

"Well, we must be off," Blake said. "We need to reach Larne before nightfall, if we're to catch the last ferry across to Liverpool."

"Don't forget: you are quite welcome at Downton," Matthew repeated, pushing his hands back into his pockets as Napier and Blake returned to their car.

"We won't!" Napier replied with a grin. "Give my regards to Lady Mary, and to Lord and Lady Grantham."

Matthew nodded. A minute later, the two men were back in their car and continuing down the road.

Matthew sighed. "It's strange. I'm relieved that Evelyn made it through the war, but seeing him again reminds me of how...ignorant...I was before it. I made such mountains out of molehills."

Tom stood watching the Fiat 501 grow smaller and then disappear around the bend in the road. Even its rumbling was quickly muffled by the thick forest that surrounded them.

"I think we all did," he said finally.

"Hm," Matthew replied, then turned back to their own car, glancing up at the sky. "Let's get back on the road. It's going to be dark soon and I don't relish the idea of getting lost in these woods."

"Agreed."

* * *

"I'm just saying that I confess to being surprised by your comment." Matthew grinned as he slung the satchel over his shoulder and reached into the boot to lift out a box. "For a moment there, it sounded almost as though you were siding with the English aristocracy."

Tom scowled. "I  _can_  see more than one side of the issue, you know."

"Oh, that's good to hear," Matthew said affably. "A step in the right direction."

"I'm not so sure it is," Tom replied, still frowning as they walked up the gravel drive to Mount Cartin.

Matthew nodded a greeting to Taft, the butler, who stood just inside the grand entranceway.

"Good afternoon, sir," Taft said, frowning slightly.

"Good afternoon," Matthew answered with a smile. Taft tended to stand as a proxy for Sir Rupert's moods, but Matthew wasn't about to let the evening start on a sour note again. "May we put these things in the library?"

"Certainly, sir," Taft began, but he seemed agitated. Noticing the oddity of this, Matthew's smile dropped away. "You'd best go through to the sitting room first, though," Taft instructed. "Lady Margaret wishes to speak with you."

"With both of us?" Tom asked.

Taft gave a commanding wave as a footman appeared on the stairs with a questioning look. The footman nodded and immediately disappeared back down the stairs again.

Recalling himself, Taft glanced between Matthew and Tom. "Perhaps you should wait out here, Mr Branson. The news is something of a personal nature."

Matthew and Tom exchanged confused and worried looks, but Tom quickly shifted his box and held out an arm to take Matthew's as well.

"Let me," Taft said quickly, stepping between them, and Matthew handed it over as he gave Tom an apologetic frown.

"Go, go," Tom said, waving him off. "I'm fine."

With ice forming in his belly, Matthew hurried to the sitting room.

Lady Margaret stood by the window, and she turned with a warm, but serious, expression.

"Oh good, you've returned, Mr Crawley."

"Yes," Matthew replied, holding his hat in both hands. He glanced about the room, noting that she was alone. "Is something amiss with Sir Rupert?"

"No, no..." Lady Margaret smiled, but a bit sadly, he thought, and his stomach turned. "I received a telephone call about an hour ago." She swallowed and took a step closer. "It's Lady Mary, Mr Crawley. It's her time."

"What?" The floor fell away briefly, and the ice turned to lead. "But it isn't for another month..."

"It's come early," Lady Margaret answered, then hesitated.

 _Just tell me!_  Matthew wanted to shout, but he only tightened his grip on his hat.

"Lady Grantham said the young woman is having a difficult time of it. It began late last night and she still hasn't birthed the child."

 _Oh, God, please...!_  Matthew's mind was numb with fear.

"I've taken the liberty of having your things packed," Lady Margaret continued. "I hope you don't mind. I thought you would want to leave at once."

Matthew swallowed. "Yes. Thank you. Yes." He started to turn, then paused. "Please give our regrets to Sir Rupert."

"Of course," she answered. "Godspeed."

Matthew barely managed to mumble a polite reply before he rushed from the room.

* * *

They'd passed Dr Clarkson's car as they drove up the long, winding road to Downton Abbey. Matthew had exchanged a glance with the doctor, but the man's usual frowning expression had given Matthew no comfort.

Tom drove up to the front entrance as quickly as he could. The car had barely come to a stop before Matthew leapt out and hurried inside the house.

"Carson!" Matthew exclaimed, and the butler held up his hands in a calming motion as he approached. Matthew all but skidded to a halt, his feet pushing back the edge of the rug in the great hall. He quickly smoothed it out and looked back up at Carson again. "Is Lady Mary—?"

"She's well," Carson answered, and Matthew sagged in relief, then started to turn towards the bedroom before Carson stopped him with a hurried gesture. "But she's very tired, sir. It ended only a short while ago. Dr Clarkson just left."

"I know, we passed him," Matthew said, glancing about. He exhaled with relief when he saw his mother emerge from the hallway that led to the bedroom. Robert came out of the small library, and a door opened and closed up on the second floor, Cora and Sybil appearing on the gallery a moment later. Cora seemed dressed for the morning, but Sybil still wore her nursing uniform and her hair was unbound.

"Matthew!" she exclaimed happily, working her hair into a quick braid.

Robert reached him first, grinning widely, and gave him a warm, enthusiastic handshake. "Congratulations, man!"

"What is it?" Matthew asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

"A son," Isobel replied. She was grinning from ear to ear.

"And Mary?" Matthew pressed. Cora and Sybil quickly descended the stairs, and he glanced at them, then at Mrs Hughes, who hurried past, disappearing down the hallway with an armload of fresh linens.

"Mary is doing fine," Cora assured him with a smile, drawing his attention back to the family. "But the ordeal took a great deal out of her."

There was a flash of morning sunlight as the front door opened behind him, and Matthew turned to see Thomas standing stiffly beside the foyer doors, keeping one open for Tom, who came in with Matthew's bags and stood awkwardly just inside the great hall, waiting for Thomas to take them from him. When Thomas didn't immediately move to do so, Tom set down the bags and straightened, taking off his hat. Both Thomas and Carson shot Tom looks of disapproval, but Matthew smiled at him.

"Thank you," Matthew said. "I'd forgotten those."

"I know," Tom answered with a smirk.

Matthew turned back to his mother. "May I see them?"

Isobel nodded. "Come with me."

Matthew eagerly fell into step beside her, lowering his voice as they entered the hallway. "Truly, is she well? There were no complications?"

"Of course there were complications, Matthew. She was a month before her time. Her breathing became quite laboured, but she soldiered through and succeeded brilliantly. She is still weak, though."

"But will she recover?"

"Yes, I expect so. With sufficient time and rest."

Matthew swallowed, the weight on his heart lifting a bit. "And the child? Is he healthy?"

"Oh yes. He's underweight, of course, but he's taken to the breast quite well." Isobel chuckled. "There's nothing wrong with the appetite on that one. Mary is doing beautifully."

"Mary?" Matthew paused, confused. "Is she...nursing the child?"

"Yes," Isobel answered with a pleased smile. "Since she and Lady Grantham had not yet finished making the arrangements for a nanny or a wet nurse, and the boy was so small, we thought it best that Mary nurse him immediately. You both can decide later whether you wish for her to continue."

The weight lifted off entirely and Matthew drew in a shaky breath. "Why did it begin so early?"

Isobel frowned. "We don't know for sure, but Dr Clarkson said that he's seen this a few times before, with the expectant mothers who survived the 'flu."

They paused outside the bedroom door, but when he moved to enter, Isobel placed herself between him and the doorknob.

"You must wait," she said. "She's not yet ready."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "She doesn't need to be presentable, Mother. I can't possibly be  _disappointed_."

"That is for her to decide, Matthew. I am only following her instructions."

"Very well," he sighed, turning to pace. He couldn't stand still and he thought he would burst through the door if he didn't force himself to walk away from it.

But his mother put her hands on his arms, stilling him, and pressed up to kiss his cheek. "Congratulations, my boy," she said softly, her eyes damp. "I'm so happy for you."

Matthew embraced her a moment. "Thank you, Mother." Tears threatened to well up but he held them back, blinking rapidly.

"Thank Sybil, too," Isobel replied. "She helped a great deal."

Matthew nodded, swallowing, and imagined all the hours he'd missed.

"I'll go keep everyone else at bay," Isobel said.

Matthew laughed. "Thank you."

* * *

"Come in." Lord Grantham beckoned, looking towards Tom and smiling widely. Tom glanced behind himself, expecting to see someone else there, but the foyer was empty. Lord Grantham chuckled. "Join me for a celebratory drink, won't you please, Mr Branson? I'm afraid the only other man in the house is rather occupied at the moment, and after the night we all just endured, I could use a stiff drink."

Tom glanced at the scowling Mr Carson, who only lifted his chin and gestured for Thomas to pick up Matthew's bags and busy himself elsewhere.

"I could use one of those, myself," Tom admitted to Lord Grantham.

"Yes, I imagine you could. Did you drive all night?"

"Yes, my lord," Tom replied.

"Will you have need of anything further, my lord?" Mr Carson asked, as Thomas strode away.

"No," Lord Grantham answered. "Thank you, Carson."

Tom watched Mr Carson and Thomas depart, feeling a powerful urge to follow them down into the servants' hall, but instead he swallowed and gave Lord Grantham a tentative, grateful smile and a quick nod. With polite smiles to Lady Grantham and Sybil—Tom forced himself to remain distantly formal and not look at her beyond a single glance—he made to follow Lord Grantham into the small library.

"Do you mind if we join you?" Lady Grantham asked her husband, and Tom looked back at her and Sybil with wide eyes. Sybil, of course, was perfectly composed and only smiled in a friendly fashion when his eyes sought hers out. He quickly looked away.

"Not at all!" Lord Grantham replied, grinning. "Although I'm not sure you'd wish to try the whisky I had in mind."

"I'd like to," Sybil answered immediately, while Cora made a slight face.

Lord Grantham smiled and led the way. "Very well, just this once. But I warn you, it's rather strong."

"That's all right," Sybil replied. "So am I."

Tom chuckled, but upon catching Lord and Lady Grantham's surprised glances, he quickly subsided. While Lord Grantham poured a splash into each of the tumblers on the tray, Sybil somehow contrived, without Tom quite noticing how she did it, to end up standing beside him. When he looked up in surprise, they exchanged a careful glance.

 _Later_ , her eyes promised, and he gave a slight nod.

"To Matthew and Mary," Robert said, passing the drinks around and holding up his glass. "And thank God for such a long-awaited, joyous occasion!"

"To Matthew and Mary," the other three echoed, gently bumping their glasses together.

Cora took only the smallest of sips, wrinkling her nose. Tom suppressed a laugh as Sybil took a rather large swallow and then quickly put a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening in surprise.

Glancing at Lord Grantham with a nod of gratitude, Tom savoured the fine whisky—it was smoother and had a better finish than any he'd tasted before—and closed his eyes, happy for Matthew and Mary, and embracing the oddity of the moment. The bright morning sun shone through the window and fell warm on his skin, and he offered up a silent prayer that all would be well with Mary and the child.

* * *

Anna appeared in the doorway. Matthew looked up from his pacing and came to a stop, his heart pounding. Anna smiled as his heart rose up into his throat.

"You may go in now, sir," she said. He gave her a grateful nod and she stepped aside, grinning, as he brushed past her. He checked himself in the doorway.

Mary was sat up in bed, propped by an abundance of pillows, and she gave him a weary smile when she saw him. She held a tiny bundle in her arms.

Oh! His vision blurred a moment as he paused, one hand tightly gripping the doorframe. He blinked, staring at them both, before he let out a happy, half-chuckling sigh at the sight.

When he finally found his voice, it shook just a touch.

"Can this hot and dusty traveller come in?"

Mary nodded, still smiling, and Matthew approached the bed.

"Say hello to your son," Mary announced softly, shifting her arms up so Matthew could take the baby, whose eyes were closed. The child was so small, with a fine feathering of dark hair the same colour as Mary's.

She carefully cradled the boy's head as she transferred him to Matthew, whose hands trembled slightly. He'd never held a newborn before. The infant was so light! He carefully lifted the precious bundle from her arms. The sense of fragility, of a living, breathing miracle held in his hands, filled him with awe.

Straightening up, he paced a few steps away, his mouth opening in delight as he stared down at the dark-haired child. The baby's mouth opened and closed in a perfect, sleepy movement, his small pink tongue making a brief appearance. Then his face wrinkled in dismay and he pushed his arms and legs inside the swaddling blanket, making small noises of discomfort until Matthew shifted his hands to a more comfortable cradling hold. The baby settled, his eyes still closed.

"Hello, my dearest little chap!" Matthew managed in a grinning half-whisper, his voice thick with emotion.

Mary, weary to her bones and peacefully content all at once, watched the way Matthew's torso seemed to curve around the baby, and she smiled at the sight. He was  _so_  happy.  _She_  was so happy! After the very long, harrowing day, she was just terribly relieved that Matthew was home, and that the three of them were safe and together. Nothing else mattered and everything was right with the world.

Matthew's breath caught as he watched the innocence, the promise, the living hope before him. There had been years of separation and struggle, of even believing that this day could never come, yet here he stood, cradling their child!

He turned his head towards Mary, letting tears well up as he spoke in a reverent whisper. "I wonder if he has any idea how much joy he brings with him!"

Matthew laughed softly, blinking as he looked back down at his son. His  _son!_

After all the months of waiting to meet this child, he had finally arrived. What Mary must have endured alone—

Matthew turned around. "My darling, how are you? Really?"

"Tired," Mary answered. "And pretty relieved."

Matthew laughed and looked back down at their son again.

"Now Papa has an heir and  _two_  spares. He must be dancing a jig," Mary said with a smile.

" _I'm_  dancing a jig!" Matthew exclaimed, his voice shaky. "I feel like I've swallowed a box of fireworks!"

Mary chuckled and sighed happily.

Matthew walked back to her side and carefully lowered the baby into her arms. Then he sank down to sit on the edge of the chair beside the bed, trailing his fingers over the baby's swaddled form. His fingertips drifted over Mary's hand, brushing against her wedding ring as he watched her, transfixed.

She wore her silk kimono over a nightgown, and her dark brown locks were braided and pinned up, but in a looser, less-formal way than usual, allowing wisps of hair to brush against her pale skin. There was a faint, pink blush on her smiling cheeks, and her fine lips were pulled up in a quiet smile as she looked down at the baby. Matthew watched her, thinking that she was more beautiful now than ever before. She was a mother now, and it only increased his admiration for her. The mother of  _his_  child. Their son dozed peacefully in her arms, and Matthew was filled with a warm contentment and a deep confidence in her.

"You are going to be such a wonderful mother," he said.

Mary looked up at him with a smile and he matched it.

"How do you know?" she asked, before looking back down at the baby.

"Because..." Matthew shook his head fondly and knelt down beside them as he continued to speak, his eyes roving over her face, "...because you're such a wonderful woman."

Mary paused and looked up at him, widening her eyes slightly in surprise. Then, pressing her lips together briefly in gratitude, she watched as he touched her hand and smiled down at the baby.

"I hope I'm allowed to be  _your_  Mary Crawley for all eternity," she answered, "and not Edith's version—" Matthew chuckled. "—or anyone else's, for that matter."

The baby roused slightly and shifted in her arms, pushing a small pink fist against his mouth—his tiny fingernails were so perfectly formed!—and she smiled down at him in proud wonder. He kicked a foot loose of his swaddling blanket, the movements jerky, searching, amazing.

Matthew rubbed her hand and looked up at her, his other hand gently caressing her side.

"You'll be my Mary always," he assured her, and she looked at his dear face, close beside hers, "because mine is the true Mary." He paused, his light blue eyes glowing with warmth as they drifted over her features. When he spoke again, his voice trembled slightly. "Do you ever wonder how happy you've made me?"

Joy washed over her in waves at his words, filling her to the brim and flooding her with delight. It was too much, and she had to look away from him. She took refuge in staring at her son.

"You sound rather foreign," she replied, trying to regain her equilibrium and not entirely succeeding. Her voice scratched slightly as she held back the tide. "Shouldn't you be saying things like, 'You'll be up and about in no time?'"

Matthew laughed, still caressing her hand. "I'll do all that tomorrow, but right now I want to tell you that I fall more in love with you every day that passes."

She looked up at him, her throat thick with emotion, and he met her gaze with complete earnestness, as he always did. Such words from anyone else would have made her snort in derision, but from him—

He didn't see much point in hiding himself from her, for good or ill. She was usually glad to know where he stood, but sometimes he was just exasperating. Recalling a recent and particularly irrational outburst from him, she smiled.

"I'll remind you of that next time I scratch the car."

Matthew laughed and looked down, and Mary grinned.

"Do," he replied, chuckling. "I give you full permission."

They both smiled at the baby and subsided with quiet sighs. Matthew pushed back a bit of the swaddling blanket to touch his son's cheek.

"What shall we call him?" Mary asked.

"I thought we'd settled on 'George Robert' for a boy."

"I don't know..." Mary wrinkled her nose slightly. "I've been thinking and I don't really like it. I still prefer 'Reginald'. Perhaps 'Reginald George'?"

Now it was Matthew's turn to wrinkle his nose. "My father disliked his name."

"'George Reginald', then."

Matthew smiled down at his son. "George Reginald," he murmured. "Yes."

Mary looked down at little George. The baby's lips twitched in a slight, newly-familiar rhythmic movement. She wondered if he dreamed of nursing at her breast, and she cradled him closer. Matthew gently stroked George's scalp.

"How was your trip?" Mary asked.

Matthew sighed. "Rushed. We caught the last ferry over and travelled through the night. Tom insisted on doing most of the driving, but I don't think I slept above a half-hour." He looked at her. "I was so worried for you. They said you were having a difficult time of it."

"Yes, but that's all done now," Mary replied. As she was speaking, George's eyes fluttered open a moment, and she and Matthew both made delighted noises and cuddled closer. Then George yawned and drifted off again.

"You should rest," Mary said as she relaxed again.

"I will," Matthew answered, yawning himself. "But first I just want to enjoy being alone with my family."

They smiled at one another before looking down at the baby again.

"Oh," Matthew murmured, after a long moment. "I meant to tell you: Tom and I had a chance meeting with Evelyn Napier. He sends his thoughts and prayers."

"I'll telephone him and Frankie soon," Mary said. "I shouldn't like them to worry."

Matthew nodded. "We had a fascinating conversation on the ferry with him and his new employer, a Mr Charles Blake. Apparently they're assembling some sort of report for the government on the health and stability of the agricultural sector, and they're interested in our observations. I expect they'll visit Downton soon."

"You should tell Mama."

"I will."

"Speaking of which, you'd better go and tell everyone else they can come in," Mary said, feeling George start to rouse. "But first I think I've earned a decent kiss."

Matthew grinned at her, his eyes alight, and he stretched up to meet her, touching her jaw with his knuckles.

"You certainly, certainly have," he agreed warmly.

He pressed his lips to hers, their familiar movement and warmth making her smile as she returned the kiss. George's tiny fist beat softly against her breast and she glowed, filled with peace and joy, held by her loving husband as she cradled their newborn son.

They parted slowly, their kiss a restful, quiet caress, and when their eyes met, they both smiled. The future held such lovely promise!

* * *

When Isobel came into the small library a few minutes later, she declined a drink, and they stood making polite conversation about the trip back from Ireland and the good health of the mother and child, until Carson showed a beaming Matthew into the room. Matthew gave a grateful nod when Robert held out a dram of whisky for him.

"Ah, just the thing," Matthew sighed, accepting it and letting his eyes fall closed as he tasted the amber liquid.

"When I learned that you and Mary were expecting, I bought it for just this occasion," Robert answered with a pleased smile. "It's Watson's No. 10."

"Appropriate," Tom murmured, drawing a surprised glance from Robert. Tom shrugged. "My grandfather enjoyed Scottish whisky."

"That's quite unusual for a..." Cora began, and Tom raised his eyebrows. "...for an Irishman," Cora finished smoothly, giving him a quick smile. "Isn't it?"

"It is," Tom acknowledged. "He only drank it privately. But he was a man who could recognise quality when he saw it."

"Indeed," Robert said. He eyed Tom curiously. "Was he a man of means?"

Tom lifted his chin. "He was a tenant farmer in Galway."

"How is Mary?" Cora asked cheerfully, glancing between Matthew and Isobel. "May we look in on them now?"

"Oh, yes," Matthew said. "She sent me out to fetch you all."

"Have you settled on the baby's name?" Sybil asked.

"George Reginald," Matthew answered proudly.

Robert set down his tumbler. "Let's go properly welcome baby George," he announced with a grin.

The rest of them moved to follow, Matthew going last as he took another quick swallow before setting down his drink.

The family went down the hall, Tom trailing behind, uncertain whether the invitation had included him, and soon the rest of them had far outpaced him. Sybil, in the rear of the group, glanced back when she noticed him missing. She paused and smiled, letting everyone else go on into the bedroom.

Tom drew up beside her. "Are you going in?"

Sybil smiled and shook her head. "I've already seen them."

He noticed how tired she looked and he frowned down at her in concern.

"Were you up all night assisting Dr Clarkson?"

Sybil nodded, drifting further down the hall. They passed the bedroom filled with happy exclamations and much excited talk, and Tom frowned in curiosity as he followed her.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly.

Sybil paused beside another door and, after glancing up and down the hall to ensure they weren't seen, she quickly opened the door and beckoned him inside.

He had only barely pushed it closed behind him before she was in his arms, and he sank into her kiss with a grateful moan.

Sybil gloried in the feel of his embrace. After a long, delicious silence, she gently broke the kiss and started to draw away, but he leaned in closer and tightened his arms, capturing her mouth again. She chuckled against his lips and returned his passion, enjoying the feel of running her palms over his broad back. When they finally parted, they both exhaled with shaky laughs and grinned at one another.

"You missed me," he said.

"Desperately," she breathed, and kissed him again. "Ohhh..." she sighed when they parted. "I'm so sorry for what I said when we last spoke!"

"So am I," he said immediately. "I'm sorry for not believing that you'd keep your word."

"Well, I didn't," Sybil admitted. "I left the moment Dr Clarkson appeared. I'm glad I helped Mrs Dupper, but he probably could have managed alone, or relied on Meredith."

"Who's Meredith?"

"Mrs Dupper's sister."

Tom frowned. "So why did Dr Clarkson even ask you?"

Sybil pressed her lips together, holding back a smile as her eyes twinkled. "I don't think he knew I would be at Crawley House. I think he was hoping Mrs Crawley would assist him."

Tom blinked, still frowning. "But if he didn't really need the help, why would he ask  _her_ , then?"

Sybil gave him an isn't-it-obvious look, then rolled her eyes at Tom's lack of comprehension.

"I think he fancies her," she explained, smiling.

"Oh," Tom answered, his eyes going wide. It hadn't really occurred to him that a man of such advanced age would still want to court, but then, Tom supposed, did one ever become too old to feel lonely? Perhaps if he were in Dr Clarkson's position and had met Sybil when they both were older, he would probably be doing exactly the same thing. Speaking of which...

"I don't want to wait for you to become established before we can marry," he said. "Mrs Crawley told me what is likely to happen if we marry while you're in school, but I don't want to wait eight years, or even longer."

"No," Sybil agreed, her smile fading. "And if I don't pass the entrance exam, we should announce our engagement and marry soon after."

"What will you do?" Tom asked. "Won't you be unhappy, settling for me?"

Sybil frowned. "'Settling for you'? What's this?"

Tom shrugged. "It just...seems the prospect of becoming a doctor is...more exciting."

"I'm trying to do the  _right_  thing, Tom," Sybil answered, and she reached up to touch his face. "Whatever that is."

"So you won't regret not becoming a doctor?"

"It's a long shot anyway," Sybil replied, straightening and dropping her hand. "I haven't had the necessary schooling, and I'm not convinced that my private studies will be sufficient. This summer... I'm going to finish what I started, and I'll do my utmost to pass the exam, but this time has helped me to see how much work I've got ahead of me, if I succeed. And if I don't succeed, at least I can take comfort in the fact that my life with you will probably be much less demanding..." She grinned up at him. "...in  _those_  ways, at least."

He grinned back and moved to kiss her, but there was a sudden swell of happy noises from farther down the hall and Sybil paused, holding out her hand for quiet. She stepped close to him and spoke quickly in a low tone.

"We haven't much time," she said. "We mustn't be spotted."

"Matthew said he'd try to arrange a meeting for us after church," Tom replied, dropping his voice to match. "Promise me you'll come."

"I will," Sybil answered. She pressed a soft, hurried kiss to his lips. "Now, I'll go out first and see if anyone is about. Wait until you hear me speaking and then come out. I'll keep everyone in the bedroom and make sure no one is coming down the hall."

Tom nodded. As Sybil moved past him towards the door, he put a hand on her arm. "We haven't discussed what we'll do if you make the entrance."

"I know," Sybil replied. "When we meet again, we'll discuss it." She started to reach for the doorknob, then turned and they met for a final, brief kiss. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he answered, buoyant despite his weariness.

Then she stepped out, leaving the door open a crack, and a minute later, he heard her exclaiming her joy over the baby.

He went out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. There was no one within sight. Satisfied, he quietly passed the bedroom filled with the happy family and, smiling, he went out to the great hall.

Thomas stood beside the foyer doors. "Leaving so soon, sir?" he asked, putting just a slightly sneering emphasis on the 'sir'.

Tom nodded, pausing awkwardly as he waited for Thomas to open the doors. After so many years of carrying bags and trunks through those doors, or standing outside, waiting for the family and their high-class guests to climb into the cars, it simply seemed  _wrong_  to have Thomas waiting on him in this fashion.

And as Thomas's accusing eyes followed him, it was clear that the footman knew how out-of-place Tom felt.

Giving the man a curt nod, Tom went out to drive Matthew's car around to the garage. At least the conversation with the new chauffeur, Mr March, would be a pleasant one, and then Tom could walk back to his rented room in the village and retire for some much-needed rest.

* * *

A tiny wail went up in the darkness and Mary groaned and threw an arm over her face, waiting. The wailing continued. Finally, she dropped her arm and looked at Matthew, who was fast asleep beside her. When he didn't respond to the baby's cries, she pushed at his side.

He made a groaning, questioning, resigned sound, and pushed himself up on to his elbows, turning his head to look at her.

"Your turn," she sighed.

"We are getting a nanny," he mumbled, for perhaps the fourth time that night, making her chuckle, then groan.

God, she felt awful. All her limbs were heavy and aching. She couldn't have slept for more than an hour together. How did working-class parents do it?

The wailing went on, abated only briefly by George drawing in each breath so he could produce another ear-splitting scream. Matthew shuffled over to the bassinet to pick him up. While Matthew muttered soft, encouraging words, alternated with shushing sounds, Mary dragged herself out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve herself. Behind her, Matthew turned on the small lamp beside the nappy shelf and laid George down on the cushion.

It wasn't generally the done thing, the husband changing a nappy. When Matthew had announced his intention, Robert had been horrified at the prospect. Anna had immediately volunteered to spend the night with Mary while Matthew slept in his dressing room instead, but Matthew had refused the offer and insisted on remaining with his family for this first night. Mary suspected that he was feeling a bit guilty for not having been there while she had laboured, but after an initial protest, she hadn't tried to dissuade him. It hadn't taken him long to decide that having a nanny was a decidedly better idea.

She chuckled as she washed her hands. Even if it was exhausting, it was still an adventure, and she was glad to have him with her and George. She and Matthew had laughed and cooed almost as much as they'd groaned and complained.

By the time she'd emerged from the bathroom, Matthew was nearly finished with George's nappy and she helped to fit the baby into new nightclothes. The task was complicated by George's randomly-flailing limbs and how numb with weariness both she and Matthew were, but they eventually got George's head and arms and legs through the correct holes in the garment, amidst the occasional giggle or snapped instruction, or sudden burst of enraged protest from the baby. When they had finished, Mary dropped the soiled linens in the basket before going back to settle herself in bed with a resigned groan, where she unbuttoned the top of her nightgown.

Matthew carried George over and laid him down beside her in the centre of the bed. It took them a few tries, but eventually she got her little boy to latch on, and both she and Matthew sighed with relief at the blessed quiet.

Matthew went across to put out the small lamp, then climbed into bed opposite her. He settled on his side and watched for a short while, smiling. Before George had even finished nursing on that breast, however, Matthew was fast asleep and snoring softly.

When George finally drew away, Mary pulled him on to her chest and carefully turned until she was lying on her other side. With an arm curved around the baby to keep him from rolling off the edge of the bed, she dozed while he nursed at the other breast.

He roused her a short while later when he began to shift around. Cradling him and yawning, she sat up, worked through her buttons with one hand—she was becoming more skilled at that—and sat on the edge of the bed to pat George's back until he burped. He was a soft, tiny bundle in her arms.

He wasn't settling easily, so she laid a spare nappy over her shoulder and began to pace the room, patting his back and holding her arm up carefully to ensure that his head remained against her shoulder. He had a tendency to suddenly twist and throw himself off to the side, and his head lolled in a terribly frightening fashion, but she'd learned how to hold him safely against her chest.

She yawned. God, she was so weary, and there Matthew lay, sleeping like a rock. She was so jealous and angry and grateful and exhausted. She just wanted to fall on the bed and not be roused 'til noon, but until the nanny arrived, that would be out of the question. Mary was still undecided about the wet nurse. She'd found that she greatly enjoyed having George close in her arms, content and sleepy and warm as he peacefully drew his nourishment from her.

Except when it was the fifth time in one night. Then she wanted to growl at the demanding child and she was sure she wanted a wet nurse. But Isobel had said that if Mary dropped feedings, her body would soon stop producing milk and she would no longer be able to nurse George, so she was torn. It was only the first night, though; there was still plenty of time to decide.

Matthew shifted as Mary paced past his side of the bed, and George hiccuped. It was the most adorable, tiny, perfect sound. Mary smiled as she rubbed his little back.

George hiccuped again and Matthew gave a weary chuckle. Slowly sitting up with a groan, he pushed his feet into his slippers and stood. Mary paced past again, but he stopped her when she started to walk away.

"Have you slept since he last awoke?" Matthew asked.

"No," Mary sighed, then yawned.

Making small, comforting noises, Matthew took George from her. He quickly got the baby and the nappy settled on his own shoulder. George hiccuped.

"I'll walk with him until he falls asleep," Matthew said. "Go lie down."

Mary didn't put up the slightest protest. "Thank you!" she said, covering another jaw-splitting yawn. She lifted the blankets and climbed into bed, her body desperately grateful.

"It's nearly dawn," Matthew said softly as he moved through the grey darkness. George hiccuped again. "We did it. We make a good team."

"We're getting a nanny."

Matthew chuckled. "Agreed."

Smiling, Mary quickly drifted into sleep.


	34. Chapter 34

_34_

**April 1920**

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes," Mr Molesley said as he entered the servants' hall. "Ah, Nanny Hollis. A few minutes of relative quiet, eh?" He smiled as he set down a pair of trousers and a button-box on the long table. Mrs Hughes briefly looked up from her pantry lists with a polite nod, then returned to her task. Morning sun shone through the window and sparkling dust motes drifted in the beam of light, set to dancing in the air currents that the valet stirred. Despite the starkness of the basement room, it gave the morning a rather magical tilt.

Nanny Hollis smiled as she put down her mug of tea and reached for her knife and fork again. "Actually, I find it rather louder down here." As if to prove her point, there was a clattering in the kitchen and Mrs Patmore let loose a string of invectives. Mrs Hughes shook her head. "Master George is calm by comparison."

Mr Molesley chuckled as he took his seat. "Yes, he was eating his breakfast quite happily when I left. Unlike Master Edward."

Nanny Hollis shook her head with a fond smile and continued eating.

"Mr Molesley, are you free?" Mr Bates poked his head into the room. "His Lordship's off to London this morning and I could use a hand getting everything ready."

"Yes, of course," Mr Molesley answered, immediately putting his sewing kit away.

Mrs Hughes looked up from her lists. "London? I wasn't aware that His Lordship was going to London today."

"It was a last-minute decision," Mr Bates explained. "His Lordship informed me of it only this morning."

Mr Molesley was already on his feet, gathering up all the items he'd brought with him.

"Is it to be an overnight stay?" Mrs Hughes asked, sitting back in her chair.

"I think not," Mr Bates answered. "We'll all be returned in time for the dressing gong."

"Very well." Mrs Hughes went back to making notations on her lists.

"I'm ready, Mr Bates," Mr Molesley said briskly, snapping to attention with the rigid posture of a Royal Guardsman.

Mr Bates gave him a relaxed smile. "So you are. Well, let's get to it, then." And the two men left.

"It's odd that two valets should be required to pack for a single person's day trip," Nanny Hollis observed pleasantly.

Mrs Hughes looked up. "Mr Molesley will be exchanging places with Mr Bates when Lady Mary and Mr Matthew leave. This is as much a training opportunity as it is a call to arms."

"Oh, I hadn't heard that," Nanny Hollis said. But in retrospect, it seemed obvious, since Anna would be staying on as Lady Mary's maid and the head housemaid when the family moved to London in a week's time. Because Nanny Hollis's focus was on Master George, she was often separated from the concerns of most of the servants. In fact, she usually took a tray in the nursery because she ate her meals at different times from everyone else in the house, but this morning she'd decided to eat breakfast in the servants' hall, just for the company. Mr Molesley had always been friendly with her, and she was going to miss him.

But then, she also liked Mr Bates, and she was glad that he and Anna would be coming along to the new house. It would be nice to have a friend in London. Nanny Hollis had only been to London once, when she was a girl, but it must have changed a great deal since then. She was old enough now to be a grandmother, although she had no surviving children, and thus could never have grandchildren. But Master George was a dear little chap, and Nanny Hollis had no shortage of work ahead of her. She smiled into her mug of tea. She rather liked the promise of a new adventure.

"Mrs Hughes, have you seen the button-box?" Anna asked, hurrying in with a sewing kit and an armload of ladies' underthings.

Mrs Hughes looked up. "Mr Molesley just took it away."

"Oh—" and Anna, looking slightly harried, turned to go.

"Anna," Mrs Hughes said. "Her Ladyship informed me that Lady Rosamund will be coming to visit soon, for a two-week stay. Would you please direct the other maids in how to prepare the usual rooms?"

"Of course," Anna replied. "I'll have Winifred air them out and stock a supply of fresh bath sheets this morning."

"And how is your packing coming along?"

"I have most of Lady Mary's winter things laid out—" Anna began.

"No." Mrs Hughes put up a hand. "I mean  _your_  packing. If you want to take a half-day off to see to your and Mr Bates's things, I can assign Helen or Winifred to Lady Mary. They're perfectly capable of washing laundry and packing a trunk. I shouldn't like you to stay up to all hours. You need to be fresh and ready to open a new household."

Anna smiled. "Thank you. I'll discuss it with Mr Bates. I think we'd like to do our packing together. Speaking of which, have you seen him?"

"He's gone upstairs. Apparently, His Lordship will be joining the general exodus to London this morning."

"Really?" Anna looked surprised. "Well, I must find Mr Bates before he leaves for the train. If you see him, please tell him I was looking for him."

Mrs Hughes nodded and returned to her lists. Nanny Hollis finished drinking her tea and rose. Gathering up her breakfast dishes, she walked down the hall to leave the soiled dishes in the kitchen sink, carefully avoiding Mrs Patmore as the woman barked commands at the kitchen maid. When Nanny Hollis went back out, she found Thomas and Miss O'Brien standing at the foot of stairs.

"That hapless nitwit just dropped a button-box on my foot!" Thomas fumed. Nanny Hollis avoided the both of them as she slipped past and mounted the steps. "Why Lord Grantham would prefer him as a valet instead of me is  _beyond_  comprehension—"

"He already  _is_  a valet, and you're not," Miss O'Brien pointed out reasonably. "Besides, what are  _you_  worried about? Just wait for Mr Molesley to drop a button-box on  _His Lordship's_  foot, and take the opportunity to step in then."

"There will be no 'stepping in' without my say-so," Mr Carson commented sharply, striding past. "Mr Barrow, your assistance with carrying up the breakfast dishes is required. That is, if you are not otherwise engaged." Mr Carson bit out these last words in a dry, cutting tone.

Thomas moved to obey, with a quick, "Yes, Mr Carson."

Nanny Hollis reached the top of the flight of stairs and went out, eager to return to the nursery and to the innocent playfulness of Master George. Sometimes company was overrated.

* * *

When Matthew came into the dining room for breakfast, Carson was putting out the serving spoons. Thomas had finished setting down the covered dishes on the sideboard and he strode out of the room. The mingling smells of fresh coffee and scrambled eggs made Matthew's stomach rumble. He quickly took a plate and served himself, then sat down and pulled the napkin over his lap while Carson poured him a cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Carson," Matthew said.

"Good morning, sir." Carson handed him a copy of  _The Times_  and walked back over to the sideboard to set down the coffeepot.

Sybil came in soon after, followed by Robert.

"I'll be joining you on the train this morning, Matthew," Robert announced as he finished serving himself. Matthew looked up from the front page of the paper, which was filled with the latest worrisome developments in Ireland.

"You will?" Sybil asked. "Whatever for?"

"I have business with Murray," Robert answered, not meeting either of their eyes as he took his seat. Carson poured coffee in Robert's mug, then tea in Sybil's.

"This seems rather sudden," Matthew observed.

"Well, sometimes business is like that," Robert answered briskly. "You know that well enough."

Matthew eyed him a moment, but as Robert only smiled blandly at him, Matthew turned to Sybil. "So what's this Mary says about you joining her in London on Tuesday?" he asked teasingly. "Is it another Crawley mystery?"

Sybil only smiled as she buttered her muffin. "It's not a mystery. I'm going to interview at the London School of Medicine for Women."

Matthew's mouth dropped open in happy surprise.

"Yes, but as you didn't pass the entrance exam," Robert observed, digging into his eggs, "I don't see why they want you to come for an interview."

Sybil's expression froze and then fell before she jutted out her chin. "You don't know that I didn't pass the exam."

He glared at her. "You didn't get a passing letter."

"I didn't get a failing one, either."

"I don't know what kind of operation they're running there," Robert muttered, then took a bite and swallowed. "You took the exam in October. It's shameful how disorganized they are."

"Perhaps it was lost in the post," Matthew said.

"But they would have answered my letters since, surely?" Sybil asked, then put down her knife and fork with a frustrated sigh. "Oh, we just keep going round and round in circles about this, Papa! I'm not giving up. Cousin Isobel and Dr Clarkson have both written, and they haven't heard back, either. Until I know for sure, I'm not going to stop studying or working at the hospital. I think the school must be waiting for the interview to make their decision."

"It's still an odd business," Robert said, glancing at Matthew for support. Matthew only shrugged and continued eating. It  _was_  strange, but what did he know about the inner workings of a medical school? Tom was being extraordinarily patient about the whole thing, Matthew thought, but Sybil had better come back from London with a definite answer, or there was going to be a reckoning.

And from the look in her eyes, she knew it, too.

"How are the repairs coming along?" she asked, giving him a purposely cheerful smile.

Matthew smiled back. "Barnes says they're nearly finished."

"Good," Robert said in a rather grumpy tone. "The repairs around here are mounting up."

"Thank you for lending him to us," Matthew replied, still smiling.

"Ooh, I can't wait to see it!" Sybil exclaimed.

"Mary can't wait to set up house," Matthew said, then frowned. "I just hope George makes the transition without too much fuss."

"Even if he does fuss a bit, that's all right," Sybil replied. "I'll be sure to come and play the doting auntie, and take him out to see all the sights. He'll forget Downton in no time."

Robert shot her a discomfited look, but said nothing.

"I don't much mind if he remembers Downton," Matthew said. "I just don't want him to stop sleeping through most of the night."

Sybil laughed. "Well, there's not much I can do about that."

* * *

When Matthew went into the nursery a short while later, Nanny Hollis was changing George's nappy. George gurgled and cooed and tried to bring his feet up to his mouth. He still had the remnants of his breakfast slathered on his cheeks and hands, and Matthew chuckled, watching George suck on his porridge-flavoured toes.

"He's eaten well, I see," Matthew observed.

Nanny Hollis nodded. "Lady Mary said that he nearly finished his second bowl of porridge this morning. He's a growing boy!" Nanny Hollis finished pinning the nappy and pulled on George's trousers. Taking a dampened cloth, she deftly cleaned his chubby cheeks, feet, and hands.

Matthew stepped in to pick him up. "You're a good little chap, aren't you?"

George gave up trying to grab his feet and settled for blowing raspberries and drooling on his fingers. Matthew grinned and carried him over to the toy box, then sat him on the floor and squatted down to roll a toy lorry towards him. George picked it up and started gumming it before banging it clumsily on the floor and making a happy noise.

"If I don't see you before you're for bed this evening," Matthew said, "then enjoy the day and be a good boy for Nanny."

George burbled and banged the lorry.

Matthew pressed a quick kiss to the baby's soft, dark hair and sighed. At least his son was happy. Taking a deep breath, Matthew stood, nodded to a calmly smiling Nanny Hollis, and went out into the hall. When he got to the bedroom door, he knocked before entering.

"Come in," Mary answered, and he found her folding a mound of small clothes, laying them out in neat piles on the bed.

"What's this?" he asked.

Mary glanced up as she set aside an adorably tiny jumper and reached for a pair of stained trousers. "I'm separating what he's outgrown and deciding which items to give to Isobel for her charity and which to keep when we move."

Matthew nodded. "Robert and I will be leaving for the train soon." He moved around the bed and stood within arm's reach of her, watching as she continued her task.

She didn't pause, only frowned slightly. "Papa is going with you?"

"Yes, he has some mysterious business to conduct, I suspect with Murray. He was asking about when Tom and I have our appointment with him."

"Are you finally going to confront Murray about the billing?" Mary asked, still folding and separating clothes, her back almost turned to him.

Matthew's shoulders fell and he sighed. "Perhaps."

Mary's lips pressed into a flat line. "You can't keep avoiding the issue."

"I must have an alternative proposal to put forward first," Matthew said. "Criticism for its own sake achieves nothing."

"You'll never advance in the firm if you don't stand up for yourself."

Matthew frowned. "I'm not sure there's a place for me at the firm," he replied, "and even if there were, I'm not convinced I'd be well served there. They're rather hidebound by traditions and a great deal of prejudice."

"You knew what you were getting yourself into when you hired Tom."

"But I hoped for the best," Matthew answered. "I won't apologise for doing the right thing."

She continued her folding, still not turning to face him.

"Mary," he said, putting a hand on her upper arm. She laid down the garment she had in her hands and drew herself up to her full height as she looked at him. Her eyes were shadowed with weariness, and the corners of her mouth pulled down. "I love you," he said.

She came into his arms then, and he held her close with a sigh of relief. As he rubbed her back, she rested her head against his shoulder and he felt some of the tension in her frame relax.

"Tonight, I thought we might—" he began, but she drew away with a shake of her head.

"I'm tired."

"I know," he said, trying to be patient. "You didn't let me finish."

"I know it's been a few days, Matthew," Mary said— _It's been a week_ , Matthew thought—and she returned to her folding. "I'm just not feeling myself."

"Again?"

When Mary nodded, Matthew frowned at her, watching her movements.

"When will you see Dr Clarkson?" he asked.

Mary sighed. "Later." She picked up a small pair of pyjamas, but Matthew stayed her hand.

"You can't keep avoiding the issue," he said gently.

Mary's mouth tightened. "I don't want to be poked and prodded, Matthew. I just want to be left alone. I have  _so much_  to do to get us ready for the move."

"All the more reason to take care of yourself," he answered.

"I'm  _trying!_ " she exclaimed, suddenly turning on him, and he pulled back. "If it's not George wanting to nurse, it's  _you_ , wanting a pound of flesh—"

Matthew's eyes widened and he put up his hands in defence. "I haven't demanded anything of you!"

Mary sighed and looked away with a frown. "No...but you keep  _asking_. You make it seem as though it's all my fault for refusing you, but you're gone so much of the time that I've had to manage most of the arrangements, and I'm  _tired_ , Matthew. I thought it would be different, after the war. I thought—" She cut herself off, her voice dropping. "And when you  _are_  here..." She glared at him. "Perhaps you  _should_  sleep in your dressing room, until these...nightmares...stop!"

Lead weighed heavy and sick in Matthew's stomach and he lowered his hands, swallowing and looking down.

There was a pause, and then Mary stepped close and touched his forearm. "I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did," Matthew said, looking up at her. "I know George is demanding, and it doesn't help that I'm disturbing your sleep, too."

"It's not  _every_  night," Mary protested softly. "I'm sorry. Really."

Matthew raised his hands—slowly, making sure she wasn't going to pull away—and he cupped the sides of her neck, then rested his forehead against hers. They sighed together and stood in silence for a long moment.

"You're doing a magnificent job," he said quietly, lifting his head to look down at her. "I'm proud of you. You're a wonderful mother." He ran his hands down her arms until his fingers met hers. "Thank you for managing the lion's share of our move. I'll sleep in my dressing room if you think it best."

She blinked, her eyes damp. "No," she answered, her hands still clasping his. "I'd rather have you near. I know you're not having an easy time of it, either."

"Thank you for waking me last night."

"I just wish you would go back to sleep afterwards. All the tossing keeps me awake, too."

"I know. I'm sorry." He straightened, drawing in a deep breath. "Well, I must go. I do love you so terribly much."

Mary gave him a tired smile. "I hope your meeting goes well. And I expect a full report on how the repairs are coming along."

"You'll have one." He frowned. "Take some time to rest this afternoon. I'm sure Anna can manage some of the packing without you."

She sighed, then nodded.

He gave her a brief kiss, which she returned with a degree of willingness but by no means enthusiasm. Then, suppressing a sigh, he went out to gather his things and find Robert.

* * *

The air was filled with the shriek of train whistles and the hiss of escaping steam, as the white-grey clouds billowed over the platform at King's Cross Station. Porters called out, people hailed one another, and street traffic guttered and rattled by outside, the sounds of the city echoing through the vast building. Matthew and Robert waited just off the end of the platform until they spotted Tom and Bates, coming from the third-class carriages at the back of the train. Meeting up, the four men quickly got their bearings and went out to the street.

"I'll see you before noon," Robert announced, lifting his hand to hail a cab. A black motorcar pulled up beside the kerb.

Matthew nodded, watching as Robert climbed into the back seat. "Do you have the address?"

"Yes." Robert turned to the cab driver. "But first, Chancery Lane."

Matthew, Tom, and Bates watched as the car pulled away, and then they moved out of the crush of foot traffic, finding a spot near the station wall.

"I've an errand to run," Matthew said, looking at Bates. "Do you have everything?"

"I do, sir." Bates gave a nod and briefly brandished a piece of paper and a key. "I'll open the place up and have a look about."

"Good. If Barnes gets there, please ask him to stay until I arrive."

"I will."

Tom adjusted the box he was holding under one arm. "I'll be there in an hour or so," he said to Matthew and Bates. "I just need to drop off these items and finalise the arrangements with my new landlord."

"Very good," Matthew answered. "Safe travels."

Exchanging a quick nod, the three men parted ways.

* * *

**Two hours later**

No one answered the door when Robert knocked, and since it stood open a crack, he poked his head in and looked around. He heard distant voices coming from the floor above. Stepping inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the indoor light as he removed his hat, enjoying the smell of fresh wood and polish. He left his walking stick propped in the corner beside the door and looked around. There did not seem to be a suitable place to hang his hat, so holding it in one hand, he went exploring.

There were new rugs on the floors, and new paper on the walls. A vaguely-familiar armchair stood in one corner of the front parlour, which had the potential to become a spacious family sitting room, somewhat larger than the one at Crawley House. There was a stack of rolled carpets lying in the middle of the room. Robert went over to the uncurtained window and looked out, approving of the view. Mary and Matthew's new home was rather close to the similarly-constructed house next door, but there was a respectable lawn and a narrow drive between the two residences.

He wandered back out into the hallway and looked in the various rooms: a back-parlour dining room, with a half-assembled table propped against the wall; a library, which contained a roll-top desk, a matching chair, and four empty bookcases, each with several crates of books stacked nearby; and a handsome kitchen with new appliances.

Robert wandered further, glanced at the scullery, and went outside to inspect the back garden. Although it was a pleasant setting, most of the view was interrupted by the houses nearby. Mary had always loved to walk the grounds at Downton; he wondered how she would adjust to this more cramped suburban landscape. Granted, Grantham House stood in a far more closely-fitted row of townhouses in London, but it was in St. James's Square. A pleasant park and significant prestige accompanied that location. The neighbourhood in this London suburb was clean and well-kept, but this whole house—which was only two stories—would fit in one corner of Downton Abbey and still leave room to spare. Despite that, he acknowledged that it was quite a respectable building, large for a middle-class villa. He approved of the Victorian architecture and the sense of venerability, at least in the exterior. The interior refurbishments had something of a too-modern feel to suit his tastes, but they seemed eminently Matthew.

He returned to the foyer and idly inspected the dim coat-closet, noticing a pair of hats on the back shelf. He recognised one as Matthew's. He set his own hat down on the shelf and was about to mount the stairs when he heard familiar voices growing louder, and Matthew appeared at the top of the staircase.

"Ah, Robert!" Matthew said, smiling as he descended. "You found us! Did your meeting go well?"

Robert gave him a tight smile. "This is quite a lovely home you have here."

"Thank you!" Matthew reached the bottom of the stairs. "Although I expect you must think it rather small."

Robert chuckled, then glanced up. Bates was descending the stairs, with Branson behind him. Robert smiled up at them.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Bates said, Branson echoing his words.

Matthew looked at Branson. "Would you give me a hand with the table?"

Branson nodded and followed Matthew down the hall, Bates on his heels.

Robert was about to do the same when he heard a familiar voice.

"My lord!" Barnes called, tipping his cap as he came down the stairs, a toolbelt round his waist. "I hadn't expected to see you here until the place was finished."

Robert looked up. "I had unexpected business in town today."

"Ah," Barnes replied with a nod.

"Father—" There was a creak at the top of the stairs and a gangly young man, perhaps seventeen, appeared. "Do you want me to bring up the carpets now? Oh, good afternoon, Your Lordship."

Robert smiled up at him. "Good afternoon, Jerry."

"Yes, carry them up, would you, boy?" Barnes answered, and Jerry nodded as he came down the stairs.

"How is the place coming along?" Robert asked Barnes, who began to walk down the hall in the direction the other men had gone. Robert briefly glanced back as Jerry crossed into the front parlour and hefted a rolled-up rug. "Will it be ready for them to move in in a week? It still seems there's a great deal of construction going on..."

"Oh, yes, my lord," Barnes replied. "It might need a few finishing touches to be fully comfortable, but it'll be quite habitable by the date Lady Mary set."

They walked into the back parlour and found Matthew and Branson affixing the remaining legs to the upended table. Barnes set to helping them, while Robert stood awkwardly to the side, watching. When the table was pronounced ready, the three men lifted it up carefully and set it on the rug.

"Where are the chairs?" Robert asked.

"On their way here, presumably," Matthew replied, wiping his hands. "Mary decided which items to send when, and I think she was wise to send the largest items first."

"I'll say," Branson observed. "The way she's coordinated this whole business has been impressive."

"You don't know the half of it," Matthew agreed with a grin. Robert smiled, quietly proud of his eldest daughter. "Thank you for lending us so many pieces of furniture, by the way," Matthew said, crossing to where Robert stood.

"Would you give me a hand with the carpets, Mr Branson?" Barnes asked, and Tom nodded, following the handyman out of the room.

Robert shrugged. "Much of it was under sheets, in portions of the house that don't see much use these days. Thank Cora; she was the one who decided what we could spare."

"Still, it's extremely generous of you," Matthew said. "So what do you think of the place?"

"It's small," Robert answered, and Matthew laughed. "No, truly, it looks quite comfortable. This seems to be a respectable neighbourhood."

"Mary did well," Matthew agreed. "Frankly, it's much more house than I thought we'd be able to reasonably afford, but it required a great deal of refurbishment, so I suppose there's that."

"How many bedrooms are there?" Robert asked.

"Five, including the master bedroom," Matthew answered. "Mary wants to be able to entertain, and we'd like to have enough space to grow our family comfortably."

Robert nodded, smiling his approval at the thought of more grandchildren.

"And the servants' quarters are quite nice," Matthew continued with a chuckle. "I refused to consider the place unless Bates approved."

Robert raised his eyebrows. "Are there really suitable quarters for a married couple?"

"We converted the menservants' apartments above the carriage house," Matthew answered, leading the way through the rear door into the kitchen. He ascended a narrow stair and gestured as he opened another door to reveal a pair of rooms. "We had to put in proper insulation and better heating, of course, but it's only a short walk down to the servants' bathroom, which is off the scullery. Bates said that he and Anna don't require a large bedroom, so we used the additional space to create a small sitting room for them. I think they'll be quite happy."

Robert nodded, looking around. It smelled of fresh paint and new wood, and he smiled.

"There's an additional pair of rooms in the attic," Matthew continued, "which the estate agent told us were the female servants' quarters, but they're so very small. Perhaps if we took out the wall between them, the space might serve as a suitable bedroom, but for now, any female servants will be housed in the room beside the nursery."

"That's...very generous," Robert said, following Matthew back down the narrow stairs.

"I would like everyone in our household to be as comfortable as possible," Matthew said. "Privation can only breed unhappiness."

Robert smiled. "Very wise of you. I'm surprised you're taking such an interest in the comfort of your staff."

"Why?" Matthew asked as he emerged into the kitchen. "It's just good sense and kindness, and we're getting a great deal for such excellent help. It's a mutual win."

"What about a room for a cook?" Robert asked, worried that Matthew might not have enough experience keeping a sizable staff.

"What with the new Tube station, Mary thinks we can hire a cook and an under-maid that are able to commute from the city, so we don't need more servants' quarters for now. And there is the potential to fix up a room or two down in the basement, if necessary."

Robert nodded. "Well, it seems you've thought of everything."

" _Mary_  has, at least," Matthew answered, smiling. Then he frowned. "She's been working herself to the bone."

"It's an adjustment for you both," Robert reassured him. "Don't worry overmuch about her. She's stronger than she seems."

Matthew shook his head and gave a wry chuckle in agreement. "You're right, of course."

They went out into the hall. Matthew looked into the library, where Bates was patiently sorting through the crates of books.

"I shouldn't worry about finding places for those yet," Matthew said. "I'd like to arrange them myself. I have a particular system."

Bates straightened up with a nod. "Very good, sir."

"You're really leaving me for this?" Robert asked the valet with a grin, waving his hand at the mostly-bare room.

Bates smirked. "No, my lord, I'm leaving you for my wife."

Robert chuckled and nodded. "Good man. Downton won't be the same without you, though, I can tell you that."

"If you ever have need of me, my lord, you can always call on me," Bates answered calmly, resting his hands on his stick and glancing at Matthew, who nodded. "Between Lady Mary and Anna, I'm sure this household can manage without me for a few days."

"I'll remember that," Robert said.

"Molesley is a fine valet," Matthew put in. "You'll be in very good hands."

Robert and Bates exchanged a look, and then Bates nodded in muted approval.

Robert straightened and smiled. "Right you are. Well, you're still my valet for another week, Bates, and make no mistake."

Bates chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it, my lord."

Matthew and Robert turned to go, but Bates put up a hand. "Mr Matthew, sir? I'd like to make a circuit of the neighbourhood, and visit the greengrocer's and baker's and such to set up accounts."

"An excellent idea," Matthew replied. "Shall we meet at King's Cross for the four o'clock home?"

"Yes, sir."

With a nod, Matthew and Robert continued down the hall to the foyer. They found Branson sitting on the stairs, reading a slim, dog-eared book. He rose as the sound of hammering began to echo down from the floor above.

"Are you ready to go?" Matthew asked Branson.

Branson stuffed the book in his suit jacket and hooked a thumb back towards the hall. "I'll just—"

Matthew nodded, and Branson strode past them, giving Robert a respectful nod before disappearing around the corner into the bathroom. The hammering continued, so Matthew retrieved his hat and led the way outside. Robert took up his walking stick and put on his own hat as he emerged into the bright daylight.

"What's wrong?" Matthew asked, as the front door closed behind them, muffling the sound of the hammering.

"Whatever do you mean?" Robert asked. He glanced up and down the street with feigned interest.

"You didn't answer my question about your meeting," Matthew said, "and forgive my prying, but your smiles have seemed rather forced."

Robert sighed, squinting at the sun as he turned. He drew in a deep breath. "It's bad news," he confessed. "I'm afraid I've made rather a horrible misstep."

"How so?" Matthew asked, facing him. "What's happened?"

"Cora's money. I lost it all," Robert answered miserably, then made a lame gesture with his stick. "Well—not all, exactly. But nearly half of it, which feels much the same." He grimaced. "What will be left for Edward? He'll be in the same position I was in thirty years ago, but the well of American heiresses has quite dried up."

Matthew crossed his arms and frowned at Robert. "Lost it? On what?"

Robert sighed. "The Canadian government absorbed the Grand Trunk Railway. All the money I invested in it is lost."

"They won't make good on even a portion of the debts?" Matthew asked.

"Not a farthing," Robert replied. "It's all gone."

"Will you have to sell up?"

Robert squinted as he looked away. "At the rate the estate requires funds, it will all be gone within a decade. And then..." Robert sighed heavily. "...yes." He put a hand to his forehead. "I can't bear the thought of telling Cora, and Mama."

"What will you do?" Matthew asked.

Robert shifted. "Murray advised me to speak with you. He doesn't think I ought to chuck in the towel just yet."

"I agree," Matthew replied, dropping his arms. "If you implement some cost-saving measures, trim the unnecessary staff, and look for ways to do things more efficiently, you could easily stretch what's left for another fifteen years. If you invest more in the estate and less in the stock market, your initial returns might be smaller, but your long-term returns are likely to carry you through until Edward inherits. If, by then, you've modernised the place and are turning a regular profit on the crops and livestock, he might be in a comfortable situation for years yet. And there are other resources, in addition to the land, that you could put to good use."

Robert stared at him. "I'll not turn Downton into a money-making venture," he snapped. "We exist to provide employment and stability. What you suggest will disturb the natural order of things."

Matthew sighed. "Selling up will disturb the natural order of things far more," he replied. "Have you heard what they're doing to Trentham?"

Robert set his jaw, looking away.

The front door closed behind them, and Branson came down the front steps, adjusting his fedora.

"Take lunch with us," Matthew said suddenly to Robert, and Robert's eyes widened. "Tom and I are going to the Jolly Woodman before we meet with Murray. Won't you join us?"

Robert gave Matthew a long look. Robert had never shared a meal with a chauffeur—a  _former_  chauffeur—before, but more than that, he knew what Matthew was really asking. To let "Tom" into his private financial concerns. To open himself up to the disconcerting thought of changing how things were done at Downton. It seemed a frighteningly slippery slope to Robert. Where would the changes end? He shivered, despite the warmth of the spring day.

But what other choice did he have? To drag himself back to Downton in defeat, his tail between his legs, and tell his wife that he'd been a fool, just as she feared?

No.

Swallowing back a tight lump of self-disgust, he nodded and put on his best polite smile as he looked at Branson—Tom.

"I'd be delighted," Robert answered. "Lead on."

Tom looked rather surprised, but he returned Robert's smile.

"Excellent," Matthew replied, and went over to push open the front gate. The three of them went out to the pavement. Robert paused, but Matthew and Tom started walking away.

Robert blinked. "Shouldn't we wait for the car?"

Matthew and Tom stopped and looked back at him.

"Oh, did you tell the cab to return?" Matthew asked. "Good thinking."

Robert felt increasingly foolish, realisation dawning as he spoke. "No, ah...I thought you might have hired one."

"It's only a short walk to the Tube station," Matthew explained.

 _You want me to ride the Tube?_  Robert thought in astonishment, but as Matthew and Tom stood waiting expectantly for him to join them, he regained his bearing, smiled, and caught up with them as they set off again.

"Of course," he said quickly. "What a splendid idea."

Matthew and Tom exchanged a look that Robert chose not to acknowledge.

Despite his acute self-consciousness, Robert considered that there was honestly something a little exciting about the prospect. He hadn't ever ridden on the Tube, and it had been decades since he'd last explored London on foot. Although he liked to think of himself as rather more egalitarian than most of his class, after seeing the moment from the point of view of these young men, he supposed he did seem rather hidebound.

Before the war, it would have been unheard of for an earl to take lunch with a former chauffeur, but these were strange times. On some days, it seemed as though the world were falling down around his ears, but he was slowly coming to realise that his vague fears of a complete collapse— _Into what? Anarchy and barbarism?_ —were unfounded. Certainly the old ways of doing things were being eroded, but the new world held a certain degree of promise. Matthew had built a strong working relationship with Tom, befriending him and treating him as an equal, and they obviously made a quite successful team.

 _There's something to be learned in that_ , Robert thought, listening as Matthew and Tom discussed which Tube station to get off at. _And I had my fair share of adventures in my day. Who says I must go down without a proper fight?_

Robert realised he was smiling, and it put a spring in his step.

* * *

Tom stood near the window in the front parlour of the law offices of Murray, Frobisher, and Curran, watching Lord Grantham's cab pull away from the kerb on the street below.

"I think that went rather well," Matthew observed, taking a seat and crossing his legs.

"Better than I was expecting it to, certainly," Tom agreed in a dry tone. Matthew chuckled. "Do you think he'll go for it?"

Matthew gave a speculative shake of his head. "It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether he understands that he doesn't have a choice."

Tom made a noise of agreement and pushed his hands into his pockets as he began pacing the room. The secretary behind the desk eyed him with some disapproval, but he ignored her look.

"Speaking of which—" Tom jutted his chin towards the door that led deeper into the firm's offices. There were quick footsteps behind it and then Mrs Winstead pushed the door open.

"Mr Murray will see you now," she announced.

Matthew and Tom followed her, nodding their thanks. Each taking a breath, they waited for Mrs Winstead to push open the inner door, then entered their employer's office.

"Ah, Mr Crawley and Mr Branson," Mr Murray said, standing up in an unhurried fashion. They shook his hand and took their customary seats before his desk as he sat back down.

"Did you get our quarterly report?" Matthew asked.

Mr Murray brandished it, unsmiling.

"The numbers are quite good," Tom put in. "Better than the last two quarters."

"True." Mr Murray flipped through the pages, then dropped it on the desk with a decisive  _smack_.

Matthew frowned. "What's this about?"

"Word of Sir Rupert's displeasure is making the rounds," Mr Murray answered as he rose and paced to the window, looking out. "I don't suppose you'd like to know who most recently informed me of this."

Tom and Matthew exchanged a look.

"If you would be so good as to enlighten us..." Matthew prompted.

"Lord. Grantham." Mr Murray bit out his words. "Just after I encouraged him to consult with you." Mr Murray glared at them, focusing his ire on Tom in particular. Tom squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Mr Murray's mouth flattened and he looked back out the window.

"If it's of any interest, we just finished having a business lunch with Lord Grantham," Tom said. "It went rather well, in fact."

Mr Murray turned on him, his eyes flashing. "Because  _I_  dismissed Sir Rupert's complaints as mere bitterness! I told Lord Grantham that you both did your jobs properly and were forced to give Sir Rupert bad news about the health of his estate, which is no secret, now that he's put Mount Cartin up for auction."

Tom and Matthew exchanged another look.

"But...our report for Sir Rupert wasn't  _all_  bleak," Matthew protested. "We only advised that he sell off a portion of his land to shore up—"

"I don't care," Mr Murray snapped. "The man is spreading a bad word about this firm—about the two of you—round his club, which is undoubtedly going to have an adverse effect on business."

"We won't peddle convenient lies," Matthew answered evenly. "I should think this firm would benefit from the trust engendered by such integrity."

"Perhaps it would," Mr Murray replied, glaring at Matthew, "if this firm did not also have to bear the brunt of complaints about being harassed by an Irish nationalist!"

Tom stiffened and opened his mouth, but Matthew quickly put out a hand and sat forward.

"We told you what happened," Matthew answered. "Sir Rupert and his son baited Mr Branson, night after night, not even dignifying his presence with a polite acknowledgement. I thought Mr Branson comported himself with grace and dignity."

"Sir Rupert said that  _Mr Branson_  verbally assaulted him!"

"Yes," Matthew acknowledged, "but only on the final night of our stay at Mount Cartin, when Mr Branson could bear the ill treatment no longer."

Mr Murray strode forward and bent over his desk, glaring at Tom. "Mr Branson," he bit out, "is not being paid by this firm to defend himself or any of his compatriots. Sometimes," Mr Murray waved his hand, straightening, "great men do not realise how their words or actions might be received—"

"Oh, he knew damn well what he was doing," Tom snapped, getting to his feet.

"I will  _not_  be interrupted!" Mr Murray barked.

Tom glared at him, his nostrils flaring, but when Matthew touched Tom's sleeve, Tom gritted his teeth and sat down again.

Mr Murray drew in a deep breath, calming himself, and sat down behind his desk. Matthew and Tom watched him for a long moment.

"That your report contained truth did not make the bitter pill any easier for Sir Rupert to swallow," Mr Murray said. He looked at Matthew. "I admire you for your principles, Mr Crawley." He looked at Tom. "I  _want_  to admire you for yours, Mr Branson—I am not an enemy of Ireland, or of the Irish people—but I cannot tolerate any abuse of our clients, no matter how richly they might deserve it. Sir Rupert and his fellows are under enough pressure right now from all sides, given the growing debacle with the Black and Tans. Personal reprisals will achieve nothing. And need I remind you that you are not guests in these gentlemen's homes for the purpose of discussing politics?"

Tom flexed his jaw, but finally nodded.

"If it's any consolation," Matthew observed in a conciliatory tone, "we've had good relations with all our other clients."

"I know," Mr Murray said. "That is why I defended you when Frobisher and Curran demanded that your employment be terminated."

He let that sink in for a moment, and then he spoke again.

"Don't forget that you stand on crumbling ground," he said. "Many of the landowners don't wish to fight for their lands any longer. It's easier to sell up for a tax-free sum than to maintain a great estate on a heavily-taxed income that swings wildly with the seasons and the market. Lloyd George did his damage and now the world is changing. You cannot afford to alienate the few clients you might attract."

"But we have more work on our slate than we can keep up with," Tom said in confusion.

"That will not always be the case," Mr Murray replied, "and certainly not if word gets round that you do not behave with the utmost propriety."

Tom frowned, but nodded.

Matthew shifted in his chair. "I suspect that Sir Rupert was not just angry about the contents of our report." Mr Murray raised an eyebrow, so Matthew glanced at Tom and then drew in a deep breath, continuing. "We overcharge our clients."

Mr Murray frowned. "What's this?"

"I believe there are potential clients who are put off by our rates," Matthew explained. "We charge a high fee, whether the news we deliver turns out to be good or bad."

"We cannot charge different amounts to different customers, or vary our fee based on how 'good' the news is. We bill you out at the standard hourly rate, nothing more."

"Yes, the standard hourly rate for  _legal services_ ," Matthew said. "But aside from the conveyancing and the wills and trusts that I handle, we're not doing that sort of work. We're just analysing property management histories, evaluating assets, and giving our best estimates on their potential profitability."

"Yes, providing skilled labour that is worth what we charge." Mr Murray frowned at him. "What are you saying?"

Matthew looked at Tom.

Tom gave him a grim expression, but sat forward. "Our clients are usually in some sort of impending financial trouble, and to charge them an exorbitant fee can only make matters worse. It's no surprise that they would feel aggrieved, particularly if all they get for their trouble is confirmation of bad news."

Mr Murray waved a hand. "You speak as though our clients are in such bad straits that they cannot afford our services, but even if the worst were to happen and they were forced to sell up, they'd still be firmly fixed in the upper classes for at least a generation or two."

"That's true," Matthew acknowledged, "but it is not just the balance sheet that concerns us. The personal shame and struggle that these families would endure if they lost their homes..."

Mr Murray gave Matthew an even look and set his jaw. "I am not heartless, Mr Crawley, but I am a practical man. If we charge less, we would appear to be less selective in our clientele, and thus less skilled at the services we provide. Our clients would begin to doubt and wonder, and to look elsewhere for assistance. What is this truly about? Do you think the firm is paying you unfairly?"

"No," Matthew said quickly. "We're well-treated. It's not for ourselves. It's only—if you wish to expand the business, to take on more clients, you might need to lower the rates so that smaller landowners can also afford our services."

Mr Murray's frown deepened. "Do you truly wish to do the same amount of work—or even more—for less payment?"

Matthew looked at Tom.

"I told you we weren't ready," Tom said. Matthew sighed and nodded, returning his gaze to Mr Murray.

"All we're asking is for you to consider the question," Matthew said. "We will, too."

Mr Murray sat back and regarded them in silence for several long seconds. Finally, he nodded.

"Very well, Mr Crawley, Mr Branson." Mr Murray cleared his throat and sat forward. "If you have no other business, let us turn our attention to deciding which clients to take on next."

Matthew and Tom made noises of agreement, and Mr Murray rang for Mrs Winstead to bring in the client dossiers.


	35. Chapter 35

_35_

**Four days later**

"You'll hire a car and come back here directly?" Mary asked, as Anna held the front door open for Sybil. "You won't attempt to take the Tube?"

"Yes, of course," Sybil replied. "I think standing for the medical school interview will be quite enough adventure for one day."

Anna chuckled.

"What time shall we expect you?" Mary asked.

Sybil wrinkled her nose and looked to the side. "One o'clock, perhaps?"

"Well, good luck, then," Mary said with a smile. "I'm sure you'll be brilliant."

Anna gave Sybil an encouraging nod. "Good luck, my lady."

Sybil returned their smiles, but her stomach was in knots and she grasped her handbag tightly. As she stepped out on to the front walk, an older woman with a rather severe bun and a black hat paused on the pavement outside the front gate.

"Is this the residence that advertised for a cook?" she asked in a thick Scots burr, her gaze taking Sybil in. Sybil had the distinct sense that she'd failed the inspection, and she swallowed and attempted a smile. She could only hope this wasn't a portent of things to come.

"Yes it is," she replied with a gesture. "My sister, Lady Mary Crawley, is just inside."

At this, the older woman's eyes widened and she straightened slightly. She gave Sybil a deferential nod, but without dropping her gaze. As Sybil neared, the woman watched her with a hungry curiosity. Sybil wasn't accustomed to being stared at, but she smiled politely and held the gate open for the woman, who seemed quite surprised by this and hurried to step inside the fence. Giving her a tight smile, Sybil continued on. She frowned slightly at the cab driver who would take her into the city. He reminded her of Tom and she swallowed back a sudden rush of loneliness as she settled herself in the back seat.

"Where to, m'lady?" he asked, when he got behind the wheel.

"The School of Medicine for Women," she answered. The words themselves seemed filled with weight and she clutched her handbag more tightly.

"Very good, m'lady," the cab driver replied, and they pulled out on to the quiet suburban lane.

Thirty minutes later, Sybil stood on the pavement in front of the school, looking up at the stately building with the school's name set in the stone above the doorway. Drawing in a deep breath, she sent up a quick prayer for good luck, squared her shoulders, and strode to the door.  _I belong here_ , she told herself, and put on a confident smile as she went inside.

Muffled voices came from various rooms along the hallway, and there were notices on a board nearby. There were invitations to volunteer for various causes, and class announcements, and a housing request inviting women to share a living arrangement 'in a respectable neighbourhood'. Someone was giving a lecture on urban sanitation, and there was another about neonatal care that had just taken place. Sybil wished she could have attended. With a smile, she walked across the hall to the office window.

"Miss Sybil Crawley, here to see Dean Henley," she said, when the woman behind the window looked up. "I have an eleven-thirty appointment."

The woman checked a list and nodded. Glancing back, she said to a younger woman, "Miss Braithwaite, would you please escort Miss Crawley up to Dr Henley's office?"

Miss Braithwaite rose with a pleasant smile. "Of course. If you'll just follow me?"

Sybil nodded, pausing as Miss Braithwaite came out of the office. They walked a short distance, rode a lift up four floors, and emerged in a quiet hall. There were name placards beside each door. Some of the names were male, but many others were female. Sybil was quite enthralled by the initials following the names, indicating various advanced degrees, most of them medical in nature.

Miss Braithwaite paused beside a door at the end of the hall and knocked, then gave Sybil a bracing smile. Sybil swallowed and returned it. Her stomach couldn't seem to decide whether to turn in a nauseating fashion or fill with butterflies.

"Come in," a low female voice called, and Miss Braithwaite pushed the door open, standing aside as Sybil entered the room.

"Miss Crawley to see you, Dr Henley," Miss Braithwaite announced. Sybil glanced round the office as she crossed over the threshold.

Bookcases lined the walls, and there were two partly-curtained windows letting in bright noon light; it was a handsome corner office. Near one wall stood a large mahogany desk piled high with papers and manila folders, and behind it sat an older woman in a black frock. Dr Henley was perhaps in her early fifties, her hair shot through with more grey than brown. It was pinned up in a loose, but practical bun, and she wore wire-rimmed spectacles. There was a severity in the set of her mouth and a sharp expression in her eyes, but she smiled and rose when Sybil approached.

Dr Henley glanced towards the door. "That will be all, Miss Braithwaite, thank you," the dean said, and the door closed quite firmly behind Sybil.

Sybil swallowed. Unsure whether she ought to shake the venerable medical woman's hand, she merely came to stand before the desk in a meek pose, holding her handbag in front of her.

Pressing her lips in a final, polite smile, Dr Henley swept out her skirts and retook her seat behind the desk.

"Thank you for coming," Dr Henley said, then waved towards one of the chairs. "Please, sit."

"It is an honour to speak with you, ma'am," Sybil replied as she sat down.

The dean pulled out a manila folder from a stack on the side of her desk and flipped it open, taking up a pen as she looked at Sybil. Sybil straightened her shoulders and made sure she had a friendly, open expression on her face.

"I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come," the dean said. "Particularly so late in the academic year, long after most students have received their notices."

"I  _am_  curious," Sybil replied carefully. "I had rather assumed I was a forgotten entity."

A tug of amusement lifted the dean's lips. "Yes, I do apologise for that. You are an unusual case, and unfortunately my normal schedule does not allow a great deal of time to look at unusual cases. I'm afraid I allowed our correspondence to lapse. The exam committee found your results intriguing, so they passed your record on to me. By the time I had finally reviewed your application and come to a decision, the situation was complicated—" Dr Henley flipped a sheet of paper over and lifted the corners of several more sheets to indicate that she spoke of them, "—by the arrival of three quite interesting letters."

"Three?" Sybil frowned. She could only account for two. Oh no, had Papa—?

"Indeed," Dr Henley replied. "From a Mrs Isobel Crawley—whom I imagine is a relation of some sort?"

"Yes," Sybil replied. "She's my sister's husband's mother."

Dr Henley frowned. "So the surname similarity is just a coincidence?"

"No..." Sybil answered. "It's...complicated."

"Ah." Dr Henley looked curious, but when Sybil did not explain further, the dean continued, flipping to another page. "...and a Dr Richard Clarkson, both of whom seemed to have functioned as your tutors...?" Sybil nodded. Dr Henley continued, now raising an eyebrow. "...and one from the Dowager Countess of Grantham, Her Ladyship Violet Crawley."

Sybil blinked. Granny?

"The Countess...seems to regard herself rather highly," the dean observed in a dry tone, glancing over the letter now before her. Sybil pressed her lips together to avoid smiling. Dr Henley made an unimpressed noise. "And she made a veiled reference to a generous donation should the School grant you an entrance. But more interestingly—" Dr Henley looked over her spectacles with a sharp gaze, "—she referred to you as 'Lady Sybil'." Sybil swallowed. "Is there something you neglected to mention in your entrance application?"

Sybil cleared her throat. "I am the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham. The Dowager Countess is my grandmother."

The dean nodded, then flipped to another sheet of paper.

"You exam results were...interesting," she said.

"Interesting how?" Sybil asked, her annoyance rising. "I never received a letter after I took the exam."

Dr Henley seemed unsurprised by this. "You did not pass," she said bluntly, "but your marks were highly unusual. Your maths was  _perfect_ , and your biology and anatomy were near-perfect." Sybil's eyes widened and her heart rose, until the dean spoke again. "But your physics was abysmal and your Latin nothing to speak of." The dean glanced down the page. "Your organic chemistry, although technically passing, was nowhere near high enough to be competitive with the other candidates."

Sybil regarded the other woman with narrowed eyes. "Then why am I sitting here?"

The dean chuckled and straightened, loosely clasping her hands and resting them on the desk.

"Because it would appear that you achieved these marks solely through a self-directed course of study, and your last formal schooling ending with your governess, who would have taught you almost nothing that would be relevant to medicine."

"Yes..." Sybil confirmed, frowning. "I suppose the letters told you that?"

"Dr Clarkson painted your deficiencies in stark terms, describing when you began your studies with him only last summer. Mrs Crawley made similar allusions. Both were impressed by how thoroughly you applied yourself. Mrs Crawley—" The dean's lips lifted in amusement again. "—seemed most particularly impressed, considering your rather...sheltered upbringing."

Sybil smiled. "Yes. I suspect her opinion of me has been quite transformed since our first acquaintance."

The dean looked at another paper. "Dr Clarkson's letter was of particular note. His assessment of you was unvarnished, but still quite determined in its recommendations, and he praises your—" Dr Henley flipped the letter over, traced down the page, and continued, "—commitment, your poise under intense criticism, your hard work, and your quick mind, and he says these qualities have impressed upon him most strongly that you can succeed if you are but given the chance."

Sybil swallowed and looked down, her face warming at such unexpected praise.

"Given the context of what you have accomplished," Dr Henley said, "I must agree."

Sybil's mouth dropped open as she looked up, and she sat forward. "Does this mean I'm to start in September?"

"No," Dr Henley replied with a small smile. She sat back. "Your scores are noteworthy and you have a few years of clinical experience, but you are not yet ready to enter medical school. You would struggle in several of the introductory classes. You were wise to apply to us, however. Although we cannot offer you a place this year, we can make a recommendation that could improve your chances of success next year. Most other schools would have merely sent you a rejection notice and forgotten you entirely."

Sybil smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Dr Henley replied. "You still have a great deal of work before you. I assume you've continued your studies in the interim?"

Sybil nodded.

Looking pleased, the dean continued, "I cannot make any guarantees, of course, but if you choose to retake the exam and all your marks are strongly competitive, there is a very good chance that you will be granted an entrance. Let me be clear, however, that this will be evaluated solely upon your academic merit."

Sybil sat up straighter and smiled.

But Dr Henley's smile fell away, and she glanced down as she sat forward and flipped to another page. "I note that you have been active in several charities and political causes. Although those efforts are commendable, they do make me wonder why you are applying to medical school." The dean pursed her lips and regarded Sybil a moment. "A woman in your position could do a great deal of good by putting in far less effort than a medical education will require."

"Perhaps," Sybil replied, "but I have tried to make a difference and I have seen the limitations of my position, as well. More often than not, my efforts have been frustrated."

Dr Henley nodded. "And how would becoming a medical woman change that?"

"I would be recognised on my own merit, as you mentioned earlier, and not on any attribute accorded to me merely by birth," Sybil answered, lifting her chin. "I would be given the opportunity to do work that, if done well, no one could brush off as unimportant."

"But do you truly want to become a  _doctor?_ " the dean prodded. "Why not continue your work as a suffragist, and demand to be recognised on your own merit more generally?"

Sybil pressed her lips together. "Because women's suffrage is a long war and I am not sufficiently equipped to fight the necessary battles."

Dr Henley's eyes narrowed. "And you see medical school as a means of equipping yourself to that end?"

"No," Sybil replied. "I see medical school as a means of learning how to heal and care for the sick. I want to make a real difference in the world, not just talk of political abstractions and hand out pamphlets that will only be trod upon."

A brief smile passed over Dr Henley's face and with a nod, she loosely clasped her hands together. "There are conditions, should you choose to re-apply. One. Between now and the beginning of your first academic year, even if you pass the next exam with excellent marks, you must continue to study to strengthen your skills in all the fields required for a proper understanding of medicine. Merely achieving an entrance is not sufficient; you must be prepared to succeed throughout the programme. Our resources are limited. We cannot afford to admit candidates who require extra instruction to succeed. I suggest that you find professional tutors; self-directed study can lead to overlooking areas of knowledge that the exams might not bring to light, but that are vital to the practice of medicine."

Sybil nodded.

"Two. You must not be seen participating in any political activism of any kind. Three. You must maintain a reputation of the highest order. And four. You must not marry."

Sybil frowned. "Why are these last three conditions required?"

"Because they are primarily concerned with maintaining the high professional reputation of this School," Dr Henley answered. "We wish to be known for excellent medical education, not for political activism. Such distractions would damage the fragile reputation and uphill battle that a women's medical school must contend with. The School only exists because of the goodwill of certain people of influence, and they will not tolerate immoral or questionable behaviour on the part of the female students. Public opinion must not be allowed to turn against us."

"But why is marriage prohibited?" Sybil asked. "It is neither immoral nor questionable."

"It is not  _officially_  prohibited," the dean replied. "There are many married doctors, myself included. But there is the potential for great harm, to both a marriage and a medical education, when both are attempted simultaneously. This is not a matter of women's equality; at most schools, students of both sexes are discouraged from marrying. But in our case, it is more than a merely practical concern." Dr Henley shifted slightly, her gaze flickering to the side as her jaw worked. "Educating a married woman implies that she has some higher calling than her familial duties, or at the very least, a calling of equal importance, which has the distasteful ring of something akin to immorality, at least to some."

Dr Henley raised her gaze again, and Sybil watched her a moment.

"But  _you_  are married," Sybil pointed out.

"Yes," the dean replied, not dropping her gaze this time.

Sybil nodded slowly. She would not hide; she'd had quite enough of that. If she could not find a sympathetic ear with this woman, there was little hope of finding an ally anywhere.

"I am engaged to be married," Sybil said, in a quiet but firm tone.

The dean's expression settled into a deep frown and she sat back. "I respect your honesty, but I am afraid that I cannot offer you any possibility of admission to the School at this juncture."

"The engagement is currently a private matter," Sybil replied, keeping her gaze level. "It is known only to a few select family members, Mrs Crawley among them."

Dr Henley narrowed her eyes and regarded Sybil for a long moment before speaking. "I am of the mind that women, upon becoming married, do not necessarily have to withdraw from professional life. Although your approach is bold and I commend you for that, to maintain a healthy marriage whilst pursuing a medical degree is a very difficult thing, requiring an extraordinarily accommodating spouse, and it is quite likely to come to a bad end, one way or another." Dr Henley paused, lifting her chin. "What I say next is not to be construed as an official position in any way."

Sybil tightened her grip on her handbag and nodded.

"Should you choose to remain engaged or even to marry," Dr Henley continued, her tone carefully measured, "these decisions must  _not_  become public knowledge until at least two years after you matriculate, and even then it must not become known that you were engaged or married while you were a student at the School. If you were discovered, it would be grounds for immediate dismissal. I would not oppose the dismissal in any way and, if pressed, will deny any knowledge of this conversation."

Sybil swallowed, then nodded.

The dean went on. "Upon such a dismissal, you will not make a public spectacle of the situation, but will graciously and quietly abide by the School's decision. In addition, if you were to find yourself with child, you will immediately—and again, quietly—resign from the programme, citing health concerns or family obligations, but not mentioning or even hinting at your expectant state in any way. Is this understood?"

Sybil nodded. "I will consider these conditions and discuss them with my fiancé."

"Even if you decide to retake the exam and you pass with highly-competitive marks, I will not allow your application to be considered until after I have had the opportunity to speak directly with this man. If I am not satisfied that he is sufficiently prepared to support you in your endeavours, either you will break off your engagement with him, or I will remove your application from consideration."

Sybil frowned. "Do you place these same conditions on all of your students?"

"We require a great deal of our students," the dean answered, lifting her chin, "and in exchange, we invest a great deal in them. It would be wrong to grant you an entrance when you are not fit for the challenge, and thus to deny someone else who has a better chance of succeeding. Do you understand?"

Sybil set her jaw. "I do..." But her tone was guarded and questioning.

Dr Henley's frame relaxed as she sat forward, and she softened her voice when she spoke. "I have seen a great deal of pain and sadness in such situations. I am not merely concerned with guarding the School's precious resources, but also with ensuring the best possible outcomes for all those under my care. It is not my desire to control and frustrate; only to protect."

Sybil nodded, staring down at her hands. She looked up again. "I understand. Thank you, Dr Henley, for your consideration. You have been...generous...with your time and your candour."

Dr Henley smiled. "I like you, Lady Sybil, and I think you show great promise."

Sybil returned the smile. "That means a great deal to me, ma'am. Good day."

When the dean nodded, Sybil rose and turned to leave.

"One more thing," Dr Henley said, making Sybil pause. "You were wise not to mention your title when you applied. If you are granted entrance to the programme, you will agree to forfeit your right to be addressed as 'Lady Sybil'."

Sybil nodded. "I suspected as much."

"In addition to ensuring your equal treatment with the other students, it is also in your best interest not to draw attention to yourself, particularly if you persist with this engagement."

"Yes," Sybil replied. "It will not be a problem. I was happy to be addressed as 'Nurse Crawley' during the war."

"You would, until matriculation, be known as 'Miss Crawley' by all members of the School community, with no change made should you choose to marry before your education is complete."

Sybil nodded. "I understand."

"Excellent. Then I wish you the best in all your efforts," Dr Henley replied, her smile distant now. "Good day."

As Sybil reached the door, she paused and turned.

"It's all about appearances, isn't it?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"It is the way of the world, Miss Crawley," the dean answered, already focused on another stack of papers on her desk.

With a final nod of thanks, Sybil went out.

* * *

"My lady," Jarvis said with a nod, tipping his hat to Sybil as she passed him in the foyer of Downton Abbey. She smiled and nodded, continuing on inside.

Mary followed after Sybil and paused to address the estate agent. "Good afternoon, Jarvis. Did it go well?"

"I think so, my lady," he replied. "Although only time will tell."

Mary nodded, going past him. "Good day."

"Good day, my lady," Jarvis replied as he stepped outside.

Carson emerged from the library just as Sybil entered the great hall.

"Hello, Carson." Sybil greeted him with a smile.

"Lady Sybil," he replied with a nod, accepting her hat, gloves, and handbag. "How was the journey?"

"Pleasant enough, but I'm glad to be home. Has Lady Rosamund arrived yet?"

Carson nodded. "Her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, Lady Rosamund, and Mrs Crawley are all taking tea in the library."

"Excellent," Sybil said. "Thank you, Carson."

He smiled, then turned to see to Mary's things as Sybil strode towards the library.

"I can sometimes find them a position as a maid-of-all-work," Isobel was saying, "but whether they can manage to  _keep_  the position is another question entirely. It's just so terribly unfair, when the neighbourhood gossips begin to talk."

"But if the maid didn't reveal her past during the interview, how else can you be sure of her character?" Cora replied with a frown. "I wouldn't want any bad influences in my house, especially if I still had young daughters."

"But if the maid is working hard and honestly, what does her past matter?" Isobel protested. "Shouldn't women in even these unfortunate circumstances be given the chance to turn over a new leaf? How would you wish to be treated if you were in such a position?"

"Ah, Sybil dear!" Rosamund exclaimed when she saw Sybil approached. Rosamund stretched up to give Sybil a quick kiss on the cheek. "Tell us all about your adventure!"

Thomas bent to offer Sybil a cup of tea as she took her seat beside Rosamund. She gave him a polite smile in thanks, and he returned it.

"Where is Mary?" Violet asked. "I thought she was returning with you."

"She's gone up to see George," Sybil answered, taking a sip of her tea.

"I cannot  _wait_ to see their new home!" Rosamund cooed. "I'm sure it's the most precious thing."

"It's very comfortable and well-lit," Sybil replied. "I think it suits them."

"Did she manage to hire a cook?" Isobel asked. "Finding good help can be such a challenge."

"Particularly now," Cora agreed.

"It was a successful morning," Sybil answered with a nod. "She found someone, and Anna is quite pleased with the choice."

"I'm glad to hear it," Cora said.

"But what of  _your_  news?" Violet asked. "Did they accept you into the programme?"

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but just then, Robert, Matthew, and Tom walked in.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Robert said, grinning.

"You look rather pleased with yourself," Violet observed.

"I am." Robert accepted a cup of tea from Thomas and selected a biscuit. "I find that I am quite cheerful about the future."

"Well!" Cora said, sitting back to smile up at him. "I am happy to hear it!"

Matthew chuckled, waiting for his own cup of tea. Carson passed behind him and Tom, going to help Thomas serve everyone.

"Between the four of us, I think we've got a fighting chance of securing the future of Downton," Matthew said with a smile.

"That's wonderful!" Cora replied.

"Our areas of strength  _do_  seem to fit well together," Robert observed, as he crossed to stand behind where Cora sat. "Matthew has the head for business and the law, Jarvis seems to be a walking encyclopaedia of Downton's quirks and peculiarities, and Mr Branson, here, knows more about fields and farms than I would have given him credit for."

"And what do you contribute, Papa?" Sybil asked, genuinely curious, although she gave her father a teasing smile. Robert, however, seemed to shift in discomfort and he frowned slightly.

"Lord Grantham understands the responsibilities and obligations the Estate owes to all the people who depend upon it, my lady," Tom replied, looking directly at Sybil. "His Lordship ensures that we keep everyone's best interests in mind."

Violet eyed Tom in surprised approval, but said nothing. Tom accepted a cup of tea from a slightly-less-frowning Carson, but waved away the offer of a biscuit.

Rosamund turned to Sybil with an eager smile. "So tell us what happened at the medical school! I must confess, I've been on tenterhooks all morning, after your mother told me of your interview."

"Yes, do tell us," Robert agreed. "We've waited long enough, God knows."

Sybil shot him a look over her teacup, then finished her sip of tea and set the cup and saucer down on the side-table.

"I did not pass the exam," she began.

"Why would they need to summon you to London to tell you that?" Robert asked.

"Robert," Cora said, and he subsided.

"But my marks were very promising," Sybil continued, looking round at everyone. "Dr Henley—the dean—told me that if I work with a tutor to strengthen my physics, chemistry, and Latin, and shore up any deficiencies in the other areas, I might be able to retake the exam and qualify for an entrance next year."

Everyone absorbed that for a moment, and there were smiles all around.

"Well, that's a better outcome than I had hoped for," Violet observed.

"I know," Sybil said. "I'm quite excited!"

"As you should be," Cora agreed. "Oh, the idea that you might have a chance of succeeding at this! It's brilliant!"

"But what I don't understand," Robert cut in, "is why they couldn't have managed to put all of that in a prompt letter."

"Dr Henley is a very busy woman, and given my marks, I am grateful that she was willing to interview me at all," Sybil replied. "She wanted to ask me particular questions..." Sybil glanced at Tom, who only gulped a rather large swallow of tea, so she looked round the rest of the gathering, "...and to make it quite clear that if I am accepted into the programme, there are certain conditions. I would only be addressed as 'Miss Crawley', for example."

"What?" Robert asked, his brows drawing down.

"That's quite reasonable," Isobel observed, but Violet, Cora, and Robert all shot her looks of annoyance. Isobel shrugged. "Being given special treatment will only draw unnecessary attention and attract resentment, even when it is undeserved. Better by far that Sybil distinguishes herself on her own merits."

"I agree," Rosamund replied, setting down her teacup. "So will you hire a tutor to come to Downton, or do you plan to study in London?"

Sybil looked at Robert. "I don't know yet."

"I'm sure all the best tutors are in London," Rosamund continued. "And you could come to live with me this year, if you like. I should very much enjoy the company."

"Thank you, Aunt Rosamund," Sybil replied cautiously, her glance quickly moving from Rosamund to Tom, and then to Matthew, who only swallowed a sip of tea and gave her a tight smile. Sybil decided to eat her biscuit.

"Oh!" Cora exclaimed, pressing her hands together in delight and looking past Matthew. The governess had just come in and was holding the door open for Mary. Mary carried George, who wore an adorable sailor costume, and Edward trailed behind her, looking rather annoyed as he tugged at his stiff collar. Sybil hid a smile behind her napkin.

"Come sit here," Cora said to Mary, patting the seat beside her, and Mary proudly took her place and gave George a stuffed rabbit that he promptly began chewing on.

While the women exclaimed over the baby, Matthew grinned down at Edward and gestured towards the biscuit server, which Edward made a dash for. Seeing him coming, Thomas lifted the server in one smooth motion and offered Edward a plate instead. When Edward had come to a full stop, Thomas slowly lowered the biscuit server and Edward took three biscuits. He tried to go for a fourth, but Carson cleared his throat. Then the butler smiled kindly at the boy and gave him a glass of milk. Pouting slightly, Edward took his usual seat on the low chair near the fireplace, and Robert, who was standing beside it, patted Edward's head, nodding in approval.

"You really ought to stay with me," Rosamund was saying to Sybil. "This medical school business is all well and good, but it's high time you put some effort into finding a husband."

Tom choked on his tea and Matthew patted his back until he caught his breath. Carson handed Tom a napkin and glared at him.

"Sorry," Tom gasped, waving off the attention. "Don't mind me."

Violet eyed him speculatively.

"Ababaa!" George dropped his rabbit on the floor. He giggled and bounced on Mary's lap as Cora cooed at him.

"I'll get Mr Foof!" Edward announced, leaping up from his chair and making a dive for the rabbit before Mary had even begun to reach for it. Robert barely managed to prevent Edward's cup of milk tipping over. "Here you go, Georgie," Edward said loudly, thrusting the rabbit at the baby.

"Baaaa!" George replied, grabbing the rabbit and stuffing one of its ears in his mouth.

"Thank you, Edward," Mary said with a smile. She smoothed out George's sailor shirt and rubbed his back while he gummed the rabbit.

Satisfied, Edward return to his seat. "May I have another biscuit?" he asked Robert, who nodded and waved Thomas over. Carson looked on in slight disapproval.

Sybil turned to Rosamund. "Thank you for your invitation, but I don't think I'll have much time to attend parties."

"Why not?" Mary asked, although there was a glint of humour in her eyes. "You won't actually be in school yet. Tutors aren't likely to take up  _all_  your evening hours."

"Yes, but I would also like to continue working in a clinical setting," Sybil replied, shooting Mary a warning look. "I thought I'd apply for a part-time nursing position of some sort. There are many things about medicine that cannot be learned from a book."

"Brava," said Isobel, with a proud smile. "I admire your commitment."

"Still, you're not getting any younger," Rosamund observed, politely ignoring Isobel. "With fewer eligible men about after the war, it's in your best interests to begin making connections now."

"But what man would want a doctor for a wife?" Violet asked.

"She's not a doctor yet," Rosamund answered.

"And getting married is sure to guarantee that she never will be," Violet snapped back.

"Now, I'm not so sure of that," Matthew said mildly. "There are married women doctors."

"It's just not the done thing amongst our kind of people," Robert answered with a frown. "What would become of the house and the children?"

"The same thing that happens everywhere else for  _your_  kind of people," Isobel observed, not looking at him. "You hire help." She took a sip of her tea.

"There's no need to make it sound so distasteful," Violet snipped. " _You_  hired help, despite your being only upper middle-class."

"My point exactly," Isobel replied, smiling as she set her teacup down. Violet pursed her lips and looked away.

"But even then, you didn't return to nursing until I went away to Radley," Matthew said to Isobel. "You were retired for at least thirteen years."

"True," she replied. "But our situation was different. As a physician, Sybil wouldn't have that sort of flexibility."

Sybil frowned.

"Well, there's no need to worry about all that now—" Mary began, then glanced down in dismay as George dropped his bedraggled rabbit again. With a sigh, she set him down on the floor beside her feet.

"He can sit up on his own now!" Edward announced, pointing at George. "Look!"

Cora smiled. "Yes, Georgie is a very big boy."

"When did he start doing that?" Rosamund asked Mary.

"Just last week," Mary answered proudly.

George threw his rabbit away, then let out a dismayed screech. He tried to stretch towards it but overreached, toppling on to his side, and he immediately set to wailing. Violet winced.

Mary bent down to right him, handed him the rabbit, and straightened, sitting up again. She opened her mouth to finish what she had been saying, but George only continued wailing and dropped the rabbit.

"I'll take him," Matthew said, coming over and setting aside his cup and saucer.

He crouched down to pick up George and the rabbit. Surprised by the sudden change, the baby quieted with a little hiccupped sob, looking up at his father with wide eyes. George twisted to look round the room, seeing all eyes on him. When Matthew tickled George's belly with the rabbit's nose, the move elicited a half-hearted giggle, but after a second attempt, George began to fuss again.

"How about a walk outside?" Matthew asked him.

"Oh, may I come, too?" Edward asked eagerly, looking from Matthew to Cora. Robert smiled, although Cora looked less pleased.

"But it's so  _beautiful_  outside!" Edward pleaded with her, which elicited chuckles from the rest of the room. Matthew looked to Cora for permission.

"Oh, very well," she agreed, and Edward dashed to Matthew's side, bouncing in excitement. As Matthew went out with the two boys, Cora called, "Don't let him get grass stains on his new trousers!" She sat back in her chair with a dismayed expression. "Oh, why do I even bother? It's a lost cause."

When Isobel launched into a tale of how difficult it had been to keep Matthew fit for company at that age, Sybil allowed herself a glance across at Tom, but he was studiously not looking at her, so she dropped her gaze and set her jaw.

* * *

That evening, Mary sat at her vanity, rubbing cream on her hands, and she looked up with a smile when Matthew came into the bedroom.

She let him kiss the back of her neck, but she only gave him a wary look when he straightened up afterwards. He smiled, undeterred, and began to massage her shoulders. He knew her too well; she melted with a sigh and her eyes fluttered closed. Humming in satisfaction, he continued, and the more his strong fingers worked at her tired muscles, the more she sank into his touch.

"Please," she finally managed, when she'd started listing to the side. "Can we continue this on the bed?"

He chuckled and pressed the pads of his thumbs deep into the muscles on either side of her spine.

"I would like nothing more," he rumbled near her ear, and warmth pooled within her.

"I'm not promising anything," she murmured, her eyes still closed. "Last night was...oh..." She lost track of her thoughts when his fingers found another knot and worked deeply into it.

"What was last night?" Matthew prodded with a pleased smirk in his tone, and she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Sure enough, he wore a smug grin.

Mary straightened and rolled her eyes. "Oh, you are insufferable." She stood up and walked to the bed.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, false innocence dripping from every syllable.

She only shot him a look, fighting a smile as she shrugged off her kimono. Pushing her pillow aside, she stretched out on her stomach in a perfectly imperious manner, making herself comfortable.

"It would be much easier to give you a massage if you weren't clothed," Matthew said, crossing his arms and watching her.

"Clothing didn't seem to stop you last night," she replied, not turning to look at him or even open her eyes.

He heaved a put-upon sigh, but she smiled in satisfaction as, a moment later, she heard his dressing gown land on the vanity seat, and a moment after that, he climbed up on the bed and straddled her from behind, his weight settling on her haunches. His hands smoothed out the fabric of her nightgown and he resumed the massage. She moaned happily, then groaned when he pushed at a new knot.

"I must say," Mary observed after a minute, sighing as Matthew kneaded her lower back. "I'm surprised Papa was so cheerful this evening about making changes to how things are done. What could have prompted such an about-turn?" Matthew made a noncommittal noise and continued to work his way from her bottom up to her shoulders. "I'm just—" she grunted under a moment of pressure,"—very pleased he's taken you back into his confidences."

"So am I," Matthew agreed. "Downton is in a much better place than many great estates. I think we have quite a good chance of succeeding here."

"That's such a relief," she sighed.

Matthew continued working on her back for a short while in silence, then shifted his position slightly. "Speaking of a good chance of succeeding, what do you think of Sybil's news?"

Mary made a noise of agreement. "To be summoned for a personal interview with the dean  _must_  be a promising sign, don't you think?"

"I suppose."

"Poor Tom." She gave a wry chuckle.

Matthew's hands paused. "Poor how?"

"Now he must wait even longer for her."

"I wonder." Matthew resumed the massage. "He asked me to arrange for him to speak with Sybil tomorrow, so I spoke to Mother, and I saw her talking quietly with Sybil before dinner this evening. Now that they have some idea of the future, I wonder if they  _will_  wait to marry."

"But you heard Granny," Mary said with a slight frown. "If Sybil marries him now, she'll have no hope of finishing medical school. She might not even be allowed to begin it."

"I wouldn't underestimate Sybil," Matthew replied.

Mary chuckled. "No, I suppose you're right."

Matthew sat back with a groan, then climbed off her and stretched out on the bed, wincing.

Mary lifted her head. "What's wrong?"

He grimaced. "My back. It twinged a bit last night when I gave you a massage, but I didn't go for as long then as I did just now."

"Where does it hurt?" she asked, sitting up with a frown.

"Down here," he answered, and he waved his hand near where he'd sustained the injury that had paralysed him.

"When was the last time  _you_  had a massage?" Mary asked.

He sighed, wincing and trying to find a comfortable position. "Right after my last visit to see Sir John?"

"That was almost a year ago," she said. "I thought he told you to see someone once a month."

Matthew shrugged and grimaced. "I've just been so busy."

"Roll over," she commanded, "and remove your shirt."

"Yes, my lady," he answered with a smirk. He climbed off the bed and, predictably, removed all his clothing.

"You only injured your lower back," Mary observed in a dry tone as she watched him disrobe.

"But it's all connected, don't you see?" Matthew wheedled, stretching out beside her.

Her eyes travelled over his body as he made himself comfortable and she smiled. When he'd settled, she took up a position straddling his legs. She began to work on the muscles of his lower back, then moved down to those of his backside, which she had to admit  _were_ all connected. She smiled, relaxing into the massage, enjoying doing this with him again. It had been too long. She'd stopped giving him massages when he'd begun seeing Sir John's man, and then she'd grown too large to do it comfortably before George was born. After George's birth, well... It had taken a while for her and Matthew to adjust. They'd had to be creative about when they could be together, because making love with a baby in the room had been...distracting. And disappointing, if George awoke and started to cry. It became easier as he grew and required fewer night feedings. Now, he only nursed once a night, and Nanny Hollis kept him with her until morning. It was more manageable, but Mary still dreamed of the day when he slept all the way through and she could wake in the morning feeling fully refreshed, instead of perpetually tired.

But she wasn't the only one who always seemed a bit run down these days. Matthew usually came back from his trips with a wearied air, as though he hadn't slept properly even without George there to wake him each night. Matthew never spoke of his nights when he was away, but Mary suspected that he had bad dreams—more often than he did when he was with her?—and when those happened, she knew he rarely fell back to sleep before dawn. She wished he could take more time off from his work. He'd barely rested in the past year, except for the few days after George's birth, and a fortnight at Christmas. The coming year promised to be just as busy, if not more so, and she wished Matthew had the power to delegate some of the work to others. He could grow the business, surely, and hire more help, if only he and Tom could find a way to take on more clients, particularly those who couldn't afford the firm's prohibitively high rates.

"I've been thinking," Mary said, working carefully around his scars as she avoided putting pressure too close to his spine. "Perhaps you could offer some sort of low initial rate to do an assessment, and then arrange for a percentage of any profits that come from the estate owner following your advice? Say, within the first five years after you give your report?"

Matthew groaned. "Please, must we discuss business? I was just enjoying this."

"But it's not a terrible idea."

Matthew exhaled a laugh, then sighed. "No...it's actually quite a  _good_  idea. But it's not enough. Many of the landowners who might be open to such an arrangement are just selling up because it's easier."

"Can you move towards a different sort of client, then?"

He frowned, his eyes still closed. "What do you mean?"

Mary tilted her head. "The government, perhaps? You might speak to Evelyn, and find out if there are other sorts of properties that could be put to better use, if only someone took the time to investigate."

"Hm," Matthew grunted, sounding thoughtful. "That's an interesting idea. But can we put off discussing all this until later?"

"Very well." Mary returned her focus to his lower back. "But I don't want to put it off for too long. If there's no place for you to advance at Murray's firm, you should start your own."

Matthew sighed. "I'm  _tired_ , Mary. Just the thought of starting up a new venture..." He grimaced.

"You needn't do it alone," Mary said. "Tom will help."

"I know. But it's not just a matter of taking on more clients. There's a great deal to do in starting a new firm."

"All the more reason to start manoeuvring for a more advantageous position now," Mary answered. "Particularly if you want to ensure our family's future."

Matthew frowned and turned slightly to face her, pushing up on his elbow. She shifted her weight off his legs to allow him to move.

"What's all this?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

She climbed off him and sat back on her haunches, resting her hands in her lap and staring down at them. Drawing in a deep breath, she looked up.

"I went to see Dr Clarkson, as you asked," she said. "We're going to have another, come September."

Matthew blinked. "...another what?"

"Another child."

"What?" He sat bolt upright.

"It's why I haven't been feeling well," Mary explained. "I should have realised it, but with the move, and George..." She trailed off with an apologetic shrug.

"Wait," Matthew said, his mouth falling open. "We're going to have another baby so soon? How did this happen?"

Mary gave him a look.

He exhaled a shaky laugh. "I thought it would be more difficult."

"Apparently, Dr Ryder did his work very well," Mary observed dryly.

"Oh my God," Matthew whispered. Then he looked at Mary, reaching for her hand. "My dear, are you all right? Is it quite safe? Your lungs..."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "...are getting better, Dr Clarkson says. They'll never be as strong as they once were, but I can climb stairs now without feeling winded in the slightest."

"Yes," Matthew agreed, but worry still creased his features.

"Another baby so soon is not ideal for my health, no, but there's no point in fussing over it. This is going to happen, and we must be prepared."

"Yes..." he repeated absently, and then his eyes focused on her and he grinned, finally lighting up. She couldn't help grinning back, and as he leaned in for a kiss, she found herself quite eager to share it. He pulled them closer together, and by the end of the kiss, she was curled up beside him with his arms wrapped around her.

"This new child will be so fortunate," he murmured, pulling back and smiling at her. "You are such a wonderful mother!"

"You keep saying that," she replied with a grin.

"Because you  _are_ ," he said, squeezing her. "I love you!" And he kissed her again.

His passion was infectious and she wanted what he wanted this evening. It did seem a moment to celebrate, particularly as she wasn't feeling ill right now—rather the opposite, in fact.

"I love you, too," she said, when they parted. "But we must avoid increasing the size of our family again, before we are ready. There are ways."

"Aside from abstaining, you mean." Matthew eyed her warily.

"Yes. I'm not sure we could manage  _that_."

"No," he agreed, chuckling.

" _Married Love_  gave the basics, but  _Wise Parenthood_  recommends something specific for me to try, which Anna can fetch. Stopes mentioned something for you as well, if we want to doubly ensure that no child can be conceived. A sheath of some kind?"

"Yes. During the war, the men spoke of a 'French letter'. I can enquire about that."

"And perhaps a visit to Dr Clarkson might be wise."

"I'll try to speak with him before we leave for London."

Mary nodded.

"But tonight...?" Matthew asked. "I slept so well last night, I thought perhaps you might be willing again? I'll understand if you aren't, especially with the baby..." He placed a hand on her abdomen, looking down at her in wonder.

"Yes," Mary answered. "I would like to, very much. I also slept well last night, even despite being awakened to nurse George."

Matthew grinned, sliding his arms around her waist. "Well, then, let's make sure you're properly prepared for another refreshing night of sleep."

Mary giggled, taking his face in her hands, and she kissed him quite thoroughly and hummed in pleasure as he tightened his embrace.

* * *

"Truly, Granny, I must thank you as well," Sybil said, accepting a cup of tea from Isobel. They sat in the drawing room at Crawley House, warm morning sunlight giving the whole room a cheerful aspect. "I think your letter might have tipped the balance for me."

"I'm glad to hear it," Violet replied. "I think it disgraceful how long it took them to acknowledge you! Not even a receipt of your application!"

"Dr Henley is a busy woman," Sybil repeated. "And I'm an odd case. Odd cases fall to the bottom of the pile."

"That's understandable," Isobel said. She looked up and smiled. "Ah, Mr Branson. Do come in."

Sybil gave Tom a wide smile and he returned it as he closed the door behind him, but then he caught sight of Violet and pulled up short. "Oh, uh, good morning, Lady Grantham."

"Good morning, Mr Branson," Violet replied coolly. "Please, sit." She made a brief gesture with her stick to indicate an empty chair, across from Sybil. Frowning in surprise, Tom lifted his chin but obeyed. Isobel poured him a cup of tea and brought it over, giving him a warm smile.

"You must be very happy to finally have some sense of the future," she said.

He accepted it with a quick nod, glancing at Violet, then at Sybil. "I hope to be, Mrs Crawley." He watched Isobel retake to her seat.

Sybil gave him an encouraging smile, which he tried to return, but his gaze kept returning to Violet.

"I am not your enemy, Mr Branson," Violet said. "I am only an interested party."

"Interested in what?" he asked.

The door opened and Dr Clarkson stepped into the room. "I hope I'm not too late," he said, smiling as he closed the door. "Good morning, Lady Grantham, Mrs Crawley. Lady Sybil." When he caught sight of Tom rising from his seat, Dr Clarkson looked briefly surprised, but he gave Tom a polite nod. "Mr Branson."

Tom nodded back as he retook his seat.

"I received your note and came right over," Dr Clarkson said to Isobel. He sat in the only remaining empty chair, beside hers. "I haven't much time. What's this about?"

"Sybil's heard from the School!" Isobel said, her eyes alight as she set to pouring another cup of tea.

Dr Clarkson accepted it from her with a grateful smile before looking at Sybil. "And?"

"I didn't make the entrance," Sybil answered, "but the dean, Dr Henley, thinks I have a good shot at making it in October, if I shore up my Latin and chemistry and physics. I'm hoping to find tutors in London."

"An excellent idea," Dr Clarkson agreed. "I am very glad to hear it. I'm afraid I am a rather poor tutor, not able to dedicate the necessary time and effort."

"Oh, but you've taught me so much," Sybil said. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome, but all the same, I'm relieved." Dr Clarkson took a sip of his tea, then glanced about the room. "This is certainly positive news, but why the convocation?" He made a gesture that included Violet and Tom.

"Because I would like to thank each of you for what you have done to support me," Sybil answered, "and out of respect for you, Dr Clarkson, I want to inform you of my plans and ask for your advice."

"Of course," the doctor said, sitting forward.

"Tom and I intend to marry quietly," Sybil continued.

 _Quietly?_  Tom frowned.

Dr Clarkson's face clouded over and he set down his teacup and saucer. "What?" He frowned at Isobel. "Did you know of this?"

Isobel nodded. "Having taken an interest in both of them, I noticed their regard. Sybil confessed everything to me last summer."

Dr Clarkson looked at Violet with raised eyebrows.

"There is little point in attempting to hide anything from me," she said with a shrug, sitting in state.

He gave her a cautiously amused smirk, then frowned as he glanced at Tom. "If I had known of this engagement, I would have advised against it, Lady Sybil."

"You wouldn't have agreed to tutor me, you mean," Sybil replied, narrowing her eyes.

"Of course not," Dr Clarkson answered. "It's best to wait until you're established to marry, no matter how 'quietly' you do it."

"But if I understand correctly, it could take at least eight to ten years to become established," Sybil said with a frown.

"Yes." Dr Clarkson nodded and set his jaw. "It is unfortunate, but it is a price you must be willing to pay."

"But must I?" Sybil asked. "Although Dr Henley did not  _approve_  of my plans—"

"Wait," Violet cut in. "You told the dean of the medical school about Mr Branson? What foolishness is this?"

Sybil was unperturbed. "It is not foolishness, Granny, only honesty. Dr Henley said that I still might succeed, but only if our engagement and marriage do not become public knowledge." Tom's frown deepened when Sybil's eyes met his, but she continued. "If Dr Henley had outright refused to consider my application, I would have reconsidered medical school altogether, but she was...cautiously willing to go along with it."

Dr Clarkson frowned at Sybil. "After all your hard work and sacrifice, why would you have reconsidered medicine, and not—" The doctor gestured at Tom. "—Mr Branson?"

"Because I love him," Sybil answered. Tom relaxed and smiled as Sybil went on. "Mary asked me once which I would regret more: losing him, or losing the chance to become a physician."

Dr Clarkson eyed Tom. "Lady Mary approves, then?"

"The plot thickens," Violet murmured.

Sybil nodded. "So does Mr Crawley."

"Matthew?" Violet narrowed her eyes. "Who else knows?"

"Only you three, Lady Mary, and Mr Crawley," Tom answered.

"None of the servants?" Violet pressed, glancing between Sybil and Tom.

"No," Sybil replied. "Not even Anna."

"I find that difficult to believe," Violet said.

"On Mr Crawley's advice, we exchanged no letters," Tom explained. "There was to be no evidence that could be found and used against us."

"Wise," Violet murmured.

"And we have been careful not to be seen together," Sybil added.

"Just how long has this been going on?" Dr Clarkson asked as he looked between them, an accusing note in his tone.

"Since November of 1916," Tom answered. He lifted his chin and met the doctor's gaze.

Violet and Isobel exchanged a look of surprise.

"I hadn't realised," Isobel said. "I thought it began only after you started working with Matthew. You've waited this whole time?"

Tom and Sybil nodded.

"That's rather...impressive," Dr Clarkson observed, breaking away from Tom's gaze to retrieve his teacup. The doctor took a sip.

"What other choice did we have?" Tom asked. "I have no desire to estrange Lady Sybil from her family."

Violet hmphed.

"I'm not eloping like a thief in the night, Granny," Sybil said, her voice hardening. "I might have once, but Mary and Matthew talked me out of it."

"Your father will never approve," Violet said. "And then what will you do to pay for your schooling?"

Sybil lifted her chin. "If I cannot go to medical school, Tom and I will leave for Ireland."

"Ah, so you're to hold his feet over the fire, then." Violet pursed her lips.

"I don't want to, no," Sybil answered. "But what is there for me here? I can find work as a nurse more easily there, and Tom will get a job as a journalist."

When the three older people turned their gaze on him, Tom shrugged. "I received an offer from a paper last year," he said. "I'll re-apply."

Violet's hands worked at the head of her stick and she narrowed her eyes.

"Never mind Lord Grantham," Dr Clarkson said. "No medical school would grant a married woman entrance."

"I've made enquiries," Isobel countered. "Lady Florence Barrett, a previous dean of the School, was married at the time she became a medical student. She graduated with honours and became a respected surgeon, not to mention eventually becoming the dean."

Violet took this in with interest. "Is that true?"

Isobel shifted, looking down at her teacup. "Well, from what I could learn, it was not a happy marriage..."

"My point exactly," Dr Clarkson said, and he fixed Sybil in a hard look. "Your life will not be your own. There is little time or energy left for a spouse." But the doctor's face clouded and he swallowed thickly. "That is true even after you are established."

Violet regarded him with a softened expression. "I never saw her unhappy," she murmured to him.

Dr Clarkson looked up with wide eyes, blinking. He gave Violet a quick nod of thanks and a tight smile, then straightened and regained his composure, turning a sharp gaze on Sybil again.

"I cannot in good conscience advise you to wed. At best, it would only be a distraction from your studies."

Sybil nodded, pressing her lips together. "That is what I expected you to say."

Dr Clarkson set down his teacup and stood, nodding to Isobel and Violet. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Crawley, but I have another appointment." He turned to Tom. "Take good care of Lady Sybil," the doctor said. "She will require a great deal of you, but if how you have started is how you intend to go on, you will have a better chance than most at happiness."

Tom rose and shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you, sir."

Dr Clarkson looked at Sybil. "I wish you all the best, my lady."

Sybil stood and pressed his hand. "Thank you, doctor." She smiled. "But you'll not be rid of me yet. I hope to continue my studies with you until I leave for London."

He nodded, although there was a wary look in his eyes. "Very well. But I expect to see no less of you, no matter what else might happen between now and then."

Sybil swallowed and nodded.

"Good day," the doctor said, and with a final nod to them all, he strode out.

"Well, that went better than I expected," Isobel observed after a moment.

"Quite," Sybil agreed. "I half-expected him to storm out, talking of betrayal."

"He wasn't always this dour," Violet said. "But when he lost Bertha, he...changed."

"Why Granny, are you saying he's secretly a romantic?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"Aren't we all?" Violet asked. She looked away with a cool expression.

"Speaking of which..." Tom narrowed his eyes. "I'm surprised at how...calm you are about this whole business, Lady Grantham."

Violet shot him a sharp look. "You presume rather a lot, Mr Branson."

"Granny," Sybil warned.

"Your father's feet aren't the only ones over the fire, Sybil," Violet said. "All the alternatives are worse."

Tom smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"I must have said it wrong," Violet replied.

"Go." Isobel suppressed a smile and waved Sybil and Tom towards the far side of the room. "I'm sure you have much to discuss. We will wait for you."

"Oh," Sybil said, and looked at the indicated spot. It did not offer much privacy, but she nodded and took Tom's hand. Violet watched them with sharp eyes, but Isobel appeared quite pleased with herself.

Sybil and Tom stopped when they reached the farthest corner of the room, glancing back at the two older women, but Isobel had begun speaking, a touch too loudly, of her work with the 'unfortunates' at the women's centre in York, and Violet was trapped. Tom chuckled and looked at Sybil, who was also smiling.

"I'm sorry I couldn't arrange something more private," Sybil murmured.

"This is for the best," Tom replied, taking her other hand in his free one and rubbing his thumbs over the backs of her fingers. "Now no one can accuse us of anything untoward."

"I suppose," Sybil agreed, but there was a twinkle in her eye. "But I'd like a bit of 'untoward'."

He laughed softly, nodding. "God, I can't wait until I can call you my wife."

"When will that be, do you think?" she asked, and they sobered.

"Is there any more reason to wait?"

She shook her head. "Let's tell my family tomorrow night, when everyone is gathered."

He nodded. "Should I come after dinner?"

"Yes. Tell Carson I asked you to come. He'll let you in."

"I will." Tom frowned. "But we're to keep it a secret from everyone else? What about my family?"

"You can tell them," she agreed. "But you must explain the need for secrecy. There are to be no public announcements, and I want to have a private ceremony at the house."

He shook his head. "We must marry in a church. We can go to St Wilfrid's in Ripon. No one will know you there."

Sybil's eyes widened. "A Catholic church? But Papa won't stand for it, and no priest will agree to not mention my family connection in the banns without his permission."

"What matters is what  _you_  will stand for," Tom said. "I'm Catholic. I'll not be married inside Downton Abbey."

She nodded. "All right."

"You'll have to convert," he said.

She shrugged. "I don't mind. I don't feel a particular allegiance to any denomination, and I rather suspect God doesn't, either."

He chuckled. "I care, but I'm doing it for my family." He sobered. "I've given up so much else...I don't want to give this up, too."

"Then don't," she answered, pressing his hands. "I'll be happy, so long as I finish the day as your wife."

Tom bent towards her, then heard Isobel's monologue increase slightly in volume, and he pressed his eyes closed and checked himself with a sigh.

"Soon," Sybil whispered, and he opened his eyes, seeing complete understanding in hers. His heart swelled as he smiled down at her, and he nodded, straightening up. "We're not out of the wood yet," she continued. "There's the problem of where we'll live. If I'm to be known as 'Miss Crawley', as Dr Henley stipulated, then I must remain, to all outward appearances, unmarried."

He frowned. "What other conditions did that woman put on you?"

"There's only one more," Sybil answered, the skin around her eyes tightening with concern as she looked up at him. "It's one of things we discussed last spring. There must be no children, not until I am established." Tom nodded slowly, his eyes falling away from her face. Sybil swallowed. "Can you accept this, or will you be terribly unhappy?"

His frown deepened. "It's a great deal to consider..." Then he drew in a deep breath and he looked up with a determined smile. "But I'll be with you, and we'll make it work somehow. I look forward to starting a family, but I'm content to wait. Just so long as, when the time comes, you're willing to go with me to Ireland to make a life there. I won't insist on forever, but I want our children to know what it is to be Irish, as well as English."

"I want that, too." Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her lips together a moment. "You are more than I could ever have hoped for!" she finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

He squeezed her hands and smiled. "I know how it feels to be ignored and mocked and excluded, for reasons that you have no control over," he answered. "You can do this. I know you can."

Sybil withdrew a hand from his grasp and quickly wiped at her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Tom. In all of this, I haven't spent enough time thinking about what you want to do. I haven't heard you speak of your politics in months! This past year must have been awful for you, helping the very people who perpetuate Irish oppression."

He sighed, then smiled and looked down at their joined hands. "It's not as difficult as I thought it would be, and I've learned a great deal. The world isn't divided up as simply as I used to think it was."

"But what do you want?" she asked. "Will you be able to pursue your dreams if you're chained to me?"

He gave her a patient look. "I'll find a way." He smirked. "Besides, if what everyone says is true, the 'chains' won't be too constricting. With you keeping so busy and no children to worry about, I'll have a great deal of time in which to think, and write. I'm starting to see that I might have something to say, which neither side is yet saying. Perhaps I might write an opinion piece."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I'm so happy to hear it! You could speak to Edith. She might be able to help you, if you want to publish a regular column."

He smiled. "I very much look forward to asking Lady Edith about that, if she'll let me."

"I have no doubt she will," Sybil said, smiling as well. "And I promise to read everything you write and tell you exactly what I think of it."

Tom chuckled. "I love you."

"And I love you!" she whispered. "We can do this."

"We will," he agreed, and lifted her hands to press a soft kiss to each of them.

 


	36. Chapter 36

_36_

Tom strode towards the village green, his mood buoyant. After such a long wait, he and Sybil were finally moving forward with their marriage plans! He grinned at every passer-by, each of their smiles in return lifting his spirits a little further. Although he had to carry a secret, it seemed as though they would all support him if they knew of it. The brotherhood of man! Which reminded him: where did he want to start with his ideas about Irish unification, independence, and the whole lot? There was talk of a possible bill on Irish independence being put before Parliament. Perhaps now was the time to strike, while the iron was hot! How could he frame the issues in a way that acknowledged the English lords and encouraged them to be willing to engage in meaningful discourse? And were the lords the only ones he had to convince?

Caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice a child on a bicycle careening excitedly in his direction until the boy was nearly upon him.

"EDWARD, NO!" Matthew shouted, running towards them, and Tom gave a yelp of surprise and leapt aside. The handlebar of the small bicycle still rammed into his thigh, and Tom groaned and bent over, barely managing to grab the handlebar and prevent Edward crashing to the ground.

Matthew ran up, slightly out of breath, and quickly took the bicycle from Tom, who clutched his leg, wincing and drawing in a sharp breath through his teeth.

"God, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry," Matthew said quickly to Tom, as he helped Edward dismount. "Are you all right?"

"Only time will tell," Tom grunted, breathing through the pain. He blinked and lifted his head to take in the scene before him. A slightly winded, perspiring Matthew, jacket-less and his sleeves rolled up, stood watching Tom with a concerned expression. Huddled against Matthew's leg was Edward, staring up at Tom with wide eyes.

"I'm ever so sorry, Mr Branson!" Edward exclaimed, a touch too loudly, and pressed himself closer to Matthew as though he were afraid Tom would be angry with him. Tom gave a rueful, half-moan, half-laugh, dropping his head. Breathing out through the fading pain, he straightened.

"Are you all right, Master Edward?" Tom asked.

Edward nodded, then glanced between Tom and Matthew. "May I go again?" the boy asked Matthew.

Matthew gave Tom a long-suffering look and then grinned down at Edward. "Hop on! We'll go once more round the green, and then it's all up to you."

"Okay!" Edward shouted, again a bit too loudly, and mounted his bicycle. Tom stood watching as they took off, Matthew steadying the back of the bicycle as Edward pedalled madly. Tom watched their progress and, as expected, Matthew let go of the bicycle long before Edward realised it. When Edward finally turned a corner and saw that Matthew was slowing to a walk far behind him, Edward wavered and nearly tumbled, but he regained his balance at the last moment and gave a triumphant shriek. Matthew laughed, then started across the green towards Tom.

Tom strode over the new spring grass and the two men met in the middle. They turned to watch Edward's progress as the boy continued riding on the road around the green, usually aiming for the puddles.

"New bicycle?" Tom asked dryly.

Matthew chuckled and nodded, wiping his brow. "I had it sent up from Harrods when we were in London."

"Ah, your mysterious errand," Tom observed. "I'm sorry I'm late. Have you been waiting long?"

Matthew shook his head. "Only about a quarter-hour, not to worry. I've been well entertained: I've spent the morning teaching him to ride, the whole way here from the Abbey." He suddenly spun and shouted in a commanding tone, "Edward!"

Edward, who had been about to splash through a large puddle and most likely soak an elderly woman walking by carrying a grocery basket, suddenly twisted away from the puddle and ended up crashing to the ground. The woman stopped to check on him, but he quickly scrambled to his feet, gave her a polite answer, and was back on his bicycle a moment later, another long streak of dirt now staining his trousers.

"He's a quick study," Tom observed, raising his eyebrows.

Matthew smiled proudly, then winced. "I'm sorry about that collision. He started pedalling like mad and I lost my grip on the seat." His eyes flickered down and then back up. "I hope he didn't do any permanent damage."

Tom shook his head and pushed his hands into his pockets, still smarting a bit.

"How was the meeting with Dr Clarkson?" Matthew asked. At Tom's surprised look, Matthew explained, "Sybil told me where she was going after breakfast."

Tom grinned. "We're going to make our announcement tomorrow evening! I'm to come to the house after dinner. Sybil said that everyone will be there for the weekly gathering."

Matthew frowned. "I'd advise against it." Tom gave him a sharp glance and opened his mouth to protest, but Matthew held up a hand. "Hear me out. The person you most need to win over is Robert, and you won't do that if you spring the news on him without warning, in full view of the whole family. You'd do much better to meet privately with him and Sybil to discuss it. Particularly as I expect you plan to rely primarily on him to fund her education."

"That's..." Tom frowned. "A good point."

Matthew nodded, turning to watch Edward as he rode past, beaming. Matthew smiled back and waved at him. "I can't wait for the day when I can do this with George," he said with a happy sigh.

Tom smiled, then shifted uncomfortably. "May I ask you for some...personal advice?"

Matthew glanced at Tom while watching Edward. "Certainly. You can ask me anything."

Tom swallowed and nodded, glanced down at his shoes, then turned as Matthew did to observe Edward's progress when the boy rode by again on the other side of the green.

"Sybil doesn't want to have children before she finishes medical school," Tom said. "And possibly not even for a year or two after, so she can establish herself in a practice somewhere."

"That sounds reasonable," Matthew agreed.

"Yes."

"So what advice do you need?"

"Ah..." Tom rocked on his heels. "Well... We want to marry soon."

Matthew looked at him. "How soon?"

"We don't know yet," Tom answered. "But as soon as possible. Sybil mentioned something about the dean of the medical school wanting to meet with me first."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Whatever for?"

"Something about demonstrating that I'm prepared to be married to someone who's also married to the school." Tom smirked.

"Ah."

"So November, at the earliest."

Matthew chuckled and shook his head. "You've got a lot more self-control than I do. To be honest, I don't think I could have managed it for as long as you have." Then he sobered a moment.

"Yes. So... How do we...ensure that no children...happen?" Tom started to speak quickly. "I mean, I've heard there are ways—"

Matthew chuckled and gave a wry shake of his head, crossing his arms. "I am absolutely the  _wrong_ person to ask."

Tom frowned. "But I thought— You and Lady Mary waited..." He trailed off as Matthew laughed and continued shaking his head.

"Mary is expecting again. We were told the happy event is likely to occur in September." Matthew was smiling.

Tom stared at him, doing some quick, silent calculations. "So soon?"

Matthew sighed and dropped his arms. "Yes."

"But is that...quite safe for her?"

Matthew squinted at Edward, who had diverged from his usual circle about the green and was riding eagerly towards a flock of grey geese. They scattered, honking and beating their wings in aggrieved protest.

"Not really, no." Matthew turned to Tom with a half-embarrassed smile. "It wasn't intentional. Mary has insisted I purchase some French letters. I'd heard of men using them during the war. In Paris."

Tom had heard rumours, too; he nodded and resolved to make a quick search at the chemist's when he next had the chance.

"I'm intending to ask Dr Clarkson for advice, though," Matthew continued. "I'd rather be fully informed by a trusted source than rely on the rude humour of some rather unsavoury individuals."

Tom nodded.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Sybil has already borrowed Mary's books on the subject," Matthew observed, chuckling.

Tom smiled and looked down at his shoes again, then frowned. "So it was just a long run of bad luck, then, with you away so much of the time?"

"No," Matthew answered, sobering. "There was a...problem. It required medical attention."

"Ah."

Matthew gave a soft laugh. "Apparently, now we have the  _opposite_  challenge."

"A better one by far. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Matthew answered, chuckling. "I'm delighted. Not at the difficulty Mary must endure, of course, but...a second child! George seemed such a miracle that I'd somehow thought it would be more of a struggle to conceive another."

Tom laughed, his eyes travelling back to Edward. All this talk of children made him acutely aware of the passage of time, of the forward movement of life. For so long, he felt as though he'd been standing still, but things were changing, and rapidly. Soon he and Sybil would be married and living in London—although  _where_  they might be able to do that and not raise questions was a problem to be solved—alongside Mary and Matthew, and their children. But watching Edward ride his bicycle on the familiar village paths gave Tom an odd sense of nostalgia. He wondered how much longer the great house would stand. Even if Lord Grantham did his utmost to adapt to the circumstances, Downton must needs change, and the prospect left Tom with mixed feelings. After nearly eight years spent at Downton, it felt almost like home. Outside of his family's house in Dublin, it was the longest he'd lived anywhere. He'd found friendship and love here, and to his surprise, he realised that he would miss this place.

Although, when he and Sybil married, Downton would be where his  _family_  lived. It was a strange thought, now that the reality was finally beginning to materialise. He would be the son-in-law of an English lord. After all Tom had espoused with such passion, what a strange turn of events!

Matthew waved and Tom followed his gaze. The subject of Tom's thoughts was striding across the green towards them, swinging his walking stick and smiling pleasantly.

"Good morning, Mr Branson," Lord Grantham said.

"Good morning, Your Lordship," Tom answered with a nod, taking his hands out of his pockets.

"He has a perfectly serviceable pony, you know," Lord Grantham said to Matthew. "You might've asked me first."

"Oh," Matthew replied. "Do you object to the bicycle? I hadn't thought—I'm sorry."

Lord Grantham chuckled. "Not to worry. Only, please impress upon him the importance of not upsetting the local livestock. I just got an earful from old Jacobson. Apparently, his geese are already irritable enough."

The three men grinned at each other and returned to watching Edward, who had just hopped off his bicycle to help a girl gather up a spilt basket.

"He's not a bad sort," Tom observed.

Lord Grantham and Matthew both looked on with proud smiles.

"What brings you to the village this morning?" Matthew asked.

Lord Grantham made a vague sweep of his stick. "I was just making the rounds. Checking in on things. You know." The earl surveyed his domain a moment with a pleased expression, then suddenly turned to Matthew. "Oh—I was thinking about your proposal to combine a portion of Windmill Farm with the adjoining field that Mr Willis has in his lot," Lord Grantham said. "I think you're right about taking advantage of the fallow land near the barns."

"And it's the perfect opportunity to revisit the rents for Mr Willis, if his allotment will be adjusted," Matthew agreed.

Lord Grantham looked less enthusiastic about this.

"Have you given any thought to the pigs?" Tom asked quickly. "As a first venture, I think they are likely to be the most lucrative. Sir Anthony has been crossing Large Blacks with Middle Whites, and he said they've turned out quite well for him, not only for how much their meat can fetch, but also given how much manure they produce."

"I have," Lord Grantham answered with a nod. "I'll need to find a good pig man, though. That's not a task I can just add to any tenant's responsibilities."

Matthew made a noise of agreement.

"Are you free this afternoon?" Lord Grantham asked them, and Tom's heart fell. He'd been hoping to have a few hours to himself, to think and plan and perhaps write.

"I promised Mary that we'd have a long walk about the grounds," Matthew answered. "We don't know how many more chances we'll have to do it before we leave."

Lord Grantham nodded and pressed his lips together. "Well then," he said briskly, "how about this evening after dinner?" He looked across at Tom. "Will you join us?"

Tom blinked. "After dinner?"

"No, _for_  dinner," Lord Grantham replied. "You have suitable clothing, I expect?"

"Yes, of course." Tom was still wrapping his head around the idea that Lord Grantham wanted  _him_  to dine with the  _family_. How well this might bode for his prospects with Sybil!

"Very well," Lord Grantham said. "Drinks are served at seven-thirty."

"I will see you then. Thank you, Your Lordship."

Lord Grantham nodded, then looked at Matthew. "Shall we head back together?"

"Yes, let's," Matthew answered.

Lord Grantham turned away to wave Edward over.

"Sybil said you wanted to speak to me about something?" Tom asked Matthew quietly.

Matthew glanced at Lord Grantham before looking back at Tom. "Mary's had a good idea about the direction our assessment business might take. We'll discuss it later."

Tom nodded.

Lord Grantham lifted his stick. "Ho there! Edward, my boy! We're for lunch! Come now."

Edward obediently turned his bicycle and headed back towards them. Giving Tom a nod, Lord Grantham walked away to meet his son. As Matthew turned to follow, he glanced back and gave Tom a wide-eyed, hopeful smile, with a cheerful nod of his head in the earl's direction. Tom grinned back and pushed his hands into his pockets.

Yes, this was a promising first step. But as Matthew looked away, Tom's smile fell. Even if he made an excellent impression this evening, it was quite unlikely that Lord and Lady Grantham would be happy about the engagement. No matter how well Tom wore the toffs' clothing, he was still a working-class paddy. He glanced down and scuffed his shoe on a clump of grass, then straightened and squared his shoulders, putting on a smile. It was a beautiful morning, he had the love of a beautiful woman, and he felt sure Lord and Lady Grantham would come around. Eventually.

* * *

**The next evening**

Tom's stomach was in knots as he looked round the large dining room table, despite it being his second night in a row dining with the Crawleys. He'd spent most of the day driving about the grounds with Matthew and Lord Grantham, discussing estate restructuring possibilities. Tom had been hoping to find Sybil at home when they'd returned for tea, so he could meet privately with her and her father, but she was still out at the hospital and she hadn't returned before Tom had to take his leave. He hadn't  _planned_  to eat dinner with the family, but when Lady Grantham had smiled politely and asked him if he would join the party again that evening, what could he do but say yes? He'd exchanged a significant look with Matthew and Mary, hoping they would warn Sybil of the change in plans, and then he'd hurried back to his rented room in the village to change.

It didn't help his nerves that Thomas was now shooting him daggers, as the footman held out a dish of vegetables. Tom gritted his teeth and spooned a serving on to his plate.

Sybil was seated on the far end of the table, chatting with Lady Edith and Sir Anthony. Lord Grantham and the Dowager Countess were seated in the middle, across from Lady Grantham and Lady Rosamund. Lady Mary sat beside her aunt, and Mrs Crawley, Matthew, and Tom were arranged together at the other end of the table. At least Tom was among friends, but he could only think that the seating arrangement was intentional. Sybil could not be farther away from him.

Matthew nudged Tom's foot and Tom blinked and quickly looked down at this plate. Matthew had warned him not to be seen looking overmuch at Sybil again; someone was sure to notice.

Lady Rosamund, for example. When Tom looked up again, he saw that she was watching him with a hawk's gaze, rather disturbingly similar to the Dowager Countess's, and a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She lifted her glass to him, and he swallowed, pressing his mouth into a tight smile and nodding politely back. Matthew said that she'd been making all sorts of probing enquires about him at breakfast, which Matthew had been careful to deflect. Tom's collar felt tight, and this blasted penguin suit was stiff and hot. Why did he let them do this to him? He wished he had declined Lady Grantham's offer and just gone with their original plan: to show up wearing his own clothing and no pretences. He wasn't one of them, and he never would be.

He frowned and took a sip from his glass, wondering when he might next have the chance to speak with Sybil and Lord Grantham alone...

"Fish, Mr Branson?" Mr Carson asked, suddenly at Tom's elbow. Tom looked up in surprise, found the butler glowering at him, and glanced quickly at the serving dish. He put a piece of fish on his plate, and Mr Carson moved on. Tom breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Well, at least it seems easier to replace a chauffeur," the Dowager Countess said, and Tom looked up in surprise.

"Yes," Sir Anthony replied. "Although we were sad to see Marsters go. He made the children laugh so, and put them at ease whenever we had a flat tyre." Sir Anthony's voice became wistful. "He made it seem such an adventure."

"I only wish the governesses were half so good with them," Edith sighed. "I've had to interview so many. It seems half of them are embittered disciplinarians, and the other half naïve young girls who dream of being Jane Eyre." She eyed her husband. "To see their faces fall when Anthony walks into the room—it almost makes me laugh."

"Am I so bad-looking?" he asked, smiling at her.

"Not at all," Edith replied. "You're just so obviously besotted with me."

"God spare us all," Violet muttered.

"I think it admirable," Cora said, smiling at Anthony and then meeting Robert's gaze across the table.

"What?" he asked, pausing in cutting his fish. "I stayed well clear of the whole lot when you were interviewing for a governess. I didn't want to influence your decision."

"I wonder if you might have helped to winnow a few out," she replied, eyeing him. When he shrugged, she turned to Edith. "Miss Goldthwaite has done wonders with Edward. His manners have greatly improved."

Edith smiled. "Yes, Harry and Sylvia are quite fond of her, too, Sylvia especially." Edith glanced towards the ceiling. "I hope they are having fun upstairs."

"I'm sure they are," Mary said. "When I left George and Nanny Hollis with them, Edward and Harry were planning a grand adventure with the train and six trolls under a bridge, and Sylvia was telling George how to talk to the Man in the Moon."

"Oh, they have such imaginations!" Edith laughed. "Sylvia asked me only this morning what I ate to make the baby grow in my stomach, because she wanted to have one, too."

Everyone around the table chuckled, and Sir Anthony gave Edith a warm smile, glancing down at her rounded belly.

"I've been surprised by how attentive Edward and Sylvia are to George, particularly as Harry seems to show no interest in him," Mary observed.

"It's probably because Harry is accustomed to having a younger sibling about," Isobel said. "For the other two, a baby is a curiosity."

There was a general agreement with this assessment, and everyone continued eating. Carson bent to refill Edith's glass of water.

"You're becoming quite the topic of conversation," Rosamund said to Edith. "I was at a small dinner party last week with a friend of mine who owns several newspapers, and he mentioned your column on how nonsensical it is to only enfranchise female property owners over the age of the thirty."

"The population of women who would qualify for the vote is ridiculously small," Edith replied, all humour falling away from her expression. "We might as well not be given the vote at all."

"I think that's rather the idea," Matthew said.

Edith gave him a grim nod.

"Well, with so many men lost in the war," Rosamund put in, glancing between Robert and Matthew, "there was perhaps a very real fear that we would outnumber you, and then only  _heaven knows_  what disasters might have befallen the Empire." She hid a smirk by taking a sip of her wine. Matthew chuckled, but Robert was not amused.

"True, but I cannot complain," Edith continued with a smile. "Even if the esteemed members of Parliament are not so enlightened—" At this, Robert shot her a sour look, but she only went on. "—the general public seems quite in favour of women's suffrage. I receive so many encouraging letters from readers, it gives me the energy to press on! Sometimes it can be difficult to find the time to write—" She smiled at Anthony and touched his hand. "—but I wouldn't exchange my family for all the letters in the world."

Robert gave her a thin smile, then glanced at her husband. "You are looking well, Anthony. I must say, after last week's dinner, I was quite worried."

"Yes, I was a bit under the weather, but Dr Hanson set me to rights." Anthony turned to Sybil. "Speaking of which, we are very happy to hear your news! When will you leave to study in London?"

Sybil looked at Robert. "I don't know yet," she answered. "But it will have to be soon, if I'm to have any chance of being ready to sit the exam again in October."

Robert smiled, but the expression didn't entirely reach his eyes. "We have yet to discuss the details," he explained to Anthony. Then, softening his expression, he looked at Sybil. "I  _am_  proud of you, my dear," he said. "I will do what I can to help you." Sybil's eyes widened as he continued. "It is fortunate that there's a medical school for women. I imagine none of the others would have given you a chance."

Sybil nodded, her eyes still wide as she watched her father. He returned to eating as Cora, Violet, Rosamund, and Mary began to discuss whom to write to concerning securing a tutor. Tom watched Sybil look down at her plate and press her lips together. She blinked rapidly and swallowed. He looked at Lord Grantham, who answered a question about an Oxford don he might know with a cheerful affirmative.

"That bodes well," Isobel said quietly, and Tom realised she was speaking to him. He nodded and gave her a tentative smile. She turned to Matthew. "Frankly, seeing Sybil thrive is such a nice change from what I deal with each day."

"How is your work going, Mother?" Matthew asked. "Have you had many successes?"

Isobel's face fell. "Not nearly as many as I'd hoped. Some women come to stay and learn a skill or apply for a position that we find for them, but most are just hungry, and their children are hungry and ill. Their situation is quite desperate...and these mothers resort to desperate measures." Isobel winced as she picked up her glass.

Matthew nodded, swallowing his food with a look of concern. His eyes drifted towards Mary and he frowned. "What is to be done?"

"We must secure more positions," Isobel answered. "It is unfortunate, but often when a prospective employer discovers what measures these women have taken to provide for their children, the employer sacks them, or refuses to take them on altogether. They are shunned by polite society, condemned to living at its edges, and trapped in a truly terrible life, with no hope of escape. Who can blame them?" Isobel seemed almost in tears, and she pressed her serviette to her lips with one hand.

Matthew touched her other hand and gave her a gentle smile. "Come now, Mother. All is not lost. There must be some way through. Perhaps if they were moved to a different community, where no one knows who they are? Could you contact a society in London and ask for help, perhaps arrange an exchange of sorts?"

"But what of the children?" Isobel asked, lowering her serviette. "To grow up in a London slum might be worse! At least in the country, they have some hope of fresh food and honest labour."

Matthew frowned and shook his head, at a loss.

"I just think of poor Ethel," Isobel murmured, glancing briefly at Cora before returning her gaze to Matthew and Tom. "I saw her again yesterday, but whenever she realises I've recognised her, she flees."

"How did she seem?" Tom asked, recalling a petite young woman with red hair, who always read magazines on her breaks in the servants' hall, and dreamed of bigger and better things than a life of service. Ethel's pronouncements had always set the older members of the staff against her, but privately, Tom had cheered her on. To think of her now...

"Thin," Isobel answered, and her mouth pulled down. "Too thin."

"Did you see the baby?" Matthew asked. "Charlie, was it?"

Isobel shook her head, and they returned to their meal in a worried silence.

When Carson and Thomas began to clear away the dinner plates and set out dessert, Tom dared another look at Sybil. He was surprised to find her staring intently at him and he gave her a brief smile. She raised her eyebrows in a meaningful way and straightened, her expression expectant. He blinked and frowned, confused, then realised a moment too late what she was intending to do. He opened his mouth to form a silent "no", but Sybil was already pushing her chair back. Her face was bright with anticipation. He looked to Mary and Matthew in confusion and dismay; they were exchanging a quick series of silent looks and gestures.

 _I thought_ you _would tell her of the change in plans!_

_What? How? I don't get the chance to see her any more often than you do!_

Glaring at them, Tom stood as Sybil rose from her seat. Matthew automatically stood as well, cutting off the exasperated looks that he and Mary were giving each other, and Robert and Anthony both pushed themselves to their feet, albeit a bit more slowly, in surprise.

"Sybil?" Robert asked, watching as she walked round the long table and came to stand beside Tom. Matthew stepped back to give her space. Sybil touched Tom's arm as she lifted her chin.

"Tom and I are getting married," she announced with a calm smile. "Now that the plans for medical school are taking a definite shape, we're ready to take the next step."

There was stunned silence throughout much of the family. Violet sat stiffly, her lips pursed in displeasure as she looked at Tom. Rosamund's mouth had fallen open in shock, but there was a definite light of amusement in her eyes. Mary was frowning down at her plate and Matthew stood behind Sybil and Tom, not looking at Robert. Isobel's gaze moved over everyone else with interest. Anthony and Edith exchanged a concerned glance, their mouths slightly open. Cora's mouth had fallen open, too, but her expression was one of betrayal, her brows pulled down as her gaze raked over Tom.

Robert's eyes bulged slightly, a storm cloud building in his features.

"What's this?" he demanded. "How dare you make such an arrangement with my daughter in secret!"

Mary got to her feet. "It hasn't been completely in secret." She stood straight and tall, collected, her chin raised. "Matthew and I have known of it since the beginning. We advised them to wait before announcing it."

Robert's eyes darted angrily to Matthew. "What do you mean, 'since the beginning'? How long has this been going on?"

"The engagement took place last year, in February," Matthew answered in a calming tone.

Robert's face reddened as he shoved his chair back and stepped in their direction. "That was when you began the whole business with Murray!" he exclaimed. "Has it all just been a cover so that this—this  _scoundrel_  can have his way with my daughter?"

Tom drew in a sharp breath and stiffened, but Sybil kept her grip on his arm, stepping between him and her father with an angry "Papa!"

Matthew put out a hand. "Now, Robert—"

"Don't you 'Now, Robert' me!" The earl's nostrils flared as he turned on Tom. "And all the time, you were driving me about, bowing and scraping, and seducing my daughter behind my back?!"

"I don't bow and scrape!" Tom shot back, his eyes burning. "And I've not seduced anyone." Tom narrowed his eyes at Robert. "Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind."

Robert lowered his voice to a dangerous hiss. "How dare you speak to me in that tone! You will leave at once—!"

"Oh, Papa," Sybil snapped.

Robert turned away with a disbelieving laugh. "This is a folly, a ridiculous, juvenile madness—"

"Sybil," Violet said, watching this whole exchange with a shrewd eye, "what do you have in mind?"

Robert turned on his mother. "Mama, this is hardly—"

"No," Violet rejoined calmly, putting up a hand. "She must have something in mind, otherwise she wouldn't have staged this announcement here tonight."

Robert shook his head and twisted to pace a step away, but he was confined by the space between the dining room table and the sideboard. With brief, agitated steps, he twisted round again. Carson stood stiff as a statue beside the sideboard, glowering.

Sybil looked at Violet. "Thank you, Granny. Yes, we do have a plan. Tom will continue to work with Matthew." Robert made a soft, derisive sound and Sybil narrowed her eyes at him. "The work they do is quite skilled and you know that  _only too well_ , Papa." Robert's eyes shot accusingly to Matthew, who only subtly shook his head. Robert's nostrils flared again and his jaw worked as he looked back at Sybil, who continued speaking. "And I will continue to study for medical school—"

Robert gave a mocking laugh. "You don't honestly expect me to  _pay_  for your studies after this little stunt, do you?"

"Of course I do," Sybil answered with a frown, straightening. "Marrying changes nothing about those plans. You just said you were proud of me and willing to support my efforts." She took a step closer to him and softened her tone, her eyes widening. "I can do some  _good_  in the world, Papa." At his stony expression, she frowned. "You always wanted us to read the Bible, but how seriously do you take its words? I should think you'd be happy that I want to apply myself to helping others, rather than just living a self-absorbed, privileged life."

Robert's jaw flexed. "Like your mother and I do, you mean," he bit out. "What does it say about respecting your parents?"

"Oh, Papa," Sybil sighed, her mouth turned down. "I don't think I'm better than you are. I'm just asking you to be reasonable."

" _Reasonable!_ " he hissed. "You plan to marry a, a—" He threw his arm up in a jerk at Tom. Tom's hands tightened into fists and his jaw flexed.

"He's a _good man_ , Papa!" Sybil exclaimed. "...and I love him." Robert snorted at this, but Sybil persisted. "He can provide for me. And I can provide for myself, eventually."

"I won't allow it!" Robert snapped, advancing on them in full fury. "I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"

"You can posture all you like, Papa," Sybil answered, her tone rising to match his, and his footsteps slowed. "It won't make any difference!"

"Oh, yes, it will," Robert growled.

"How?" Sybil retorted. "If the price of medical school is losing Tom, then I will simply give up my dream of becoming a doctor. And you can hardly lock me up until I die." Robert froze, his eyes wide. "I'll say good night—" Sybil sighed and glanced at the rest of the family before returning her gaze to Robert. "—but I can promise you one thing: tomorrow morning, nothing will have changed. Tom?"

Sybil turned towards the door. Tom and Robert stood facing one another for a moment, and as Tom made to follow Sybil, Robert advanced on him.

"Robert—" Cora began, standing up. Tom and Sybil paused and glanced back in surprise.

"Take care," Violet agreed, looking up at Robert.

Robert spun and glared at them. "You can't possibly be in  _support_  of this."

Cora had a pleading expression on her face. "Please, we must discuss this  _calmly_."

Robert spun back around, now fixing his gaze on Mary, then Matthew. "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

Mary and Matthew exchanged a glance before she lifted her chin.

"I didn't say anything earlier because I hoped it would blow over," Mary answered. "I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up." Tom and Sybil both shot her looks of displeasure, but Mary continued, unfazed. "Matthew and I convinced them to wait, to  _stay in England_. I should think you'd be grateful for that."

"Grateful?" Robert bit out, his voice dangerously soft.

"Yes!" Mary answered with a frustrated wave of her hand. "Their original plan had been to run away to  _Ireland_."

Robert's mouth fell open as he looked at Tom and Sybil.

"Tom got a job on a newspaper, so we were to go to Dublin," Sybil explained.

"To live with him?" Cora asked, her eyes wide with horror. "Unmarried?"

"I had planned to live with his mother while the banns were read," Sybil answered. "And then we would be married, and I'd get a job as a nurse. It's still a viable plan."

"What does you mother make of this?" Violet asked Tom.

His mouth pressed into a flat line. "If you must know, she thinks we're very foolish."

"Oh, so at least we have  _something_  in common," Violet replied.

Robert gave an angry huff, shoved at the chair nearest him, and stalked out of the room, Thomas quickly moving to hold the door open for him. Everyone left behind remained in awkward silence for a long moment.

Tom looked at Sybil. "I'll go." He spoke quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait," Matthew said, putting out a hand. "Let me speak with him."

"It's no use," Cora sighed. "Not when he's like this."

"Matthew can't make it any  _worse_ ," Mary said, arching her eyebrow. She nodded at Matthew, who quickly went out.

Cora frowned at Sybil. "You shouldn't have sprung it on him so suddenly."

Sybil set her jaw. "No matter how I might have said it, Papa would still have overreacted."

"He's not  _overreacting_ ," Violet answered. "He's afraid for you. We all are. Sybil, dear, this sort of thing is all very well in novels, but in reality it can prove very uncomfortable. And while I am sure Mr Branson has many virtues—"

"I will not give him up," Sybil answered firmly.

Tom looked down at his shoes, his jaw working. He lifted his eyes to take in the gathered family and he couldn't help glancing at Carson, who was regarding him with such silent fury that Tom swallowed and quickly looked away. Tom met Violet's gaze without rancor before turning to address Cora.

"I understand your fear, Lady Grantham," he said, "but I promise you, I have nothing but Sybil's best interests at heart. I love her."

Cora blinked and frowned. Tom glanced round the rest of the table, but most everyone's expressions remained largely unchanged. Isobel's expression was resigned and apologetic. He looked away with a sigh, nodding.

Sybil's fingers entwined gently with his. "Come," she said softly.

"Don't go far," Mary said.

They nodded and left. Thomas closed the door behind them.

Cora dropped her serviette on the table and sagged as she sat back down. "She's right about one thing: we can't lock her up until she dies."

"Worse luck," Violet said.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Rosamund said, looking distinctly like the cat that got the cream. "It's high time something  _interesting_  happened in this family!"

Violet gave her a look. "Yes, we can hardly call your engagement to  _Mr_  Painswick interesting  _now_ , can we?"

Rosamund gave a dignified sort of wiggle and picked up her glass of wine with a smirk. "I'm happy to cede the honour to dear Sybil."

"I like Mr Branson," Edith attempted.

"Well, at least I can say this for him," Violet replied, lifting her own glass, "he  _is_  a good driver."

Cora sighed and stared at nothing.

Mary had retaken her seat and she looked expectantly at Carson. The butler still stood beside the sideboard, glaring at the closed door where Tom and Sybil had just exited.

"Well, Carson," Mary declared, as she smoothed her serviette on her lap and smiled. "Shall we have dessert?"

* * *

Matthew carefully opened the library door and stepped inside. The moment the door had closed behind him, Robert spun, his eyes burning.

"I  _trusted_  you!" he hissed. "On your word, I trusted  _him!_ " Robert jerked his arm in the direction of the dining room. He took a step towards Matthew, who held his ground and set his jaw. "I have let him into my private concerns! You have exposed me to  _mockery!_ " Robert's nostrils flared and he looked away again.

Matthew's jaw worked. "Have you never wondered," he asked in controlled tone, "why the members of this family hide their deepest concerns from you?"

Robert's eyes flashed as he turned on Matthew, baring his teeth. "What?"

"Mary," Matthew answered, pausing a moment to let his words sink in. "Cora, who helped her. Now Sybil. Even Edith, whom Anthony had to defend against you."

Robert glared at him, but Matthew advanced with deliberation, lifting his chin.

"You are a  _good man_ , Robert," Matthew said. "We all love you."

"But?" Robert's face was red, his frame trembling slightly.

"But you let your fear overtake your love for them."

Robert swallowed, blinking, and looked away, turning towards the window. His nostrils flared as he breathed.

"Tom  _is_  a good man, sir," Matthew said, quieting his voice. "If Sybil were my daughter, I would be delighted to have him as my son-in-law."

Robert shook his head.

"What do you object to?" Matthew asked. "What are you afraid of?"

After a long moment, Robert turned, narrowing his eyes. "Why do you trust him so?"

Matthew looked at the floor a moment. He lifted his eyes back up to Robert's. "When I was in my chair," Matthew began, "Tom was one of the few who treated me as though I were still a  _man_ , and not merely an unfortunate cripple." The skin around Robert's eyes tightened, but he remained silent. Matthew swallowed. "Tom...enabled me to keep going, when you asked me to first look round the estate. He went far beyond what I would expect of a chauffeur, and he did it without complaining or taking advantage of the situation in any way."

Robert's expression hardened. "He convinced you to let him pursue Sybil in secret."

"No, he did not," Matthew answered. "I had planned to ask him to be my partner before I knew of the understanding between them. When I went to offer him a job, I discovered them talking. He and Sybil wanted to tell you from the very first, but Mary and I convinced them to wait." Matthew frowned and glanced aside a moment. "I will admit that the secret has gone on much longer than any of us intended, because Sybil took an interest in medicine and she feared that you wouldn't even entertain the possibility of supporting her if you knew about Tom."

Robert gave a bitter laugh, looking away.

"We have chaperoned them on many outings and Tom has never once abused the privilege." Matthew took another step forward. "He and Sybil swear that they have only ever kissed, and from what I overheard before they knew I was listening, I believe them. They have obeyed every restriction that Mary and I have put on them, and I can assure you, it has not been easy for them." Matthew paused. "He has shown restraint, waiting patiently for her, for nearly  _four years_. I should think you would find that admirable."

Robert's eyes shot to Matthew's and his frown deepened.

Matthew narrowed his eyes a moment before glancing away. When he looked back at Robert, Matthew drew in a deep breath and lifted his chin. "He is clever, honourable, diligent, resourceful—"

"Proud," Robert bit out.

Matthew chuckled. "Yes, but would we respect him if he were any less so?"

Robert looked away.

Matthew sobered. "He is a true friend—I could not ask for a better one—and I know he will care for Sybil above himself, as he has done for so long, setting aside his own desires to support her efforts to get into medical school. How many men would do that? And have you considered how difficult it has been for him to work with me? To help advance and secure the positions of the very men who perpetuate the oppression of his homeland?"

Robert turned on Matthew with a glare.

"And because he is such a  _fine_ ,  _upstanding_  young man," the earl bit out, his colour rising as he spoke, "you find nothing wrong with him carrying on with my daughter in secret, in their ambushing me in my own home, in how they have rallied you and Mary to their banner so that I shall have even  _fewer_  allies, and appear as nothing but an old fool, clinging to tired traditions?"

"Robert, I—I think you exaggerate..." Matthew protested, raising his hands.

"Do I?" Robert scoffed. He took a step forward, his nostrils flaring as he spoke in a dangerously soft tone. "I pray to  _God_  that you never see the day that your children rebel against you, and should that day ever come, I pray that I am still alive to see how well  _you_  handle it."

Matthew swallowed.

"Don't you understand?" Robert asked, jerking his arms out in frustration. "She will lose everything! All of her old friends. She will no longer receive their invitations. Important doors will be closed to her!"

"As they are to Mary?" Matthew asked quietly.

Robert frowned at the floor, his jaw working.

"Your daughters are strong, Robert. They are a credit to you. To people who know and love them, the doors will never be closed. To the rest I say good riddance."

Robert's eyes flashed at Matthew, but then the earl looked down and sighed.

"I should have known I would not find any support from you or Mary, or even from my own mother." Robert shook his head. "I am the earl, but everyone else thinks they can run this place. I am tasked with trying to preserve it, to pay for everyone's dreams. All I ask for is respect, for me, for those who came before me, for our way of life. Apparently, that is too much to ask, for the moment I object to anything,  _I'm_  the one being unreasonable."

Matthew frowned. "Robert..."

The earl raised his hand and Matthew fell silent. Drawing in a deep breath, Robert turned away, saying only, "Send them in."

"Yes, sir." Matthew went out.

* * *

"It's harder than I expected it to be," Sybil murmured, watching the flames flickering in the grate. She and Tom stood before the fireplace in the great hall. "I knew it would be difficult, but to actually  _see_  their faces..."

He cupped her elbow, stroking it. "It went exactly as I expected it to," he replied quietly. "But I'm not sorry we did it."

"No, nor am I," she answered, meeting his eyes. Seeing something flicker in his gaze, she smiled. "There's no point in hiding any longer, is there?"

"None," he agreed, bending to kiss her. It was only a brief press; there was something bittersweet in the moment. But her hands clutched his lapels, and when the kiss ended, he drew her into his embrace and rested his cheek against her hair.

Footsteps sounded behind them and they turned to see Matthew, a grim expression on his face.

"He's ready to see you now."

* * *

When Sybil and Tom entered the library, they found Robert standing beside the fireplace. He did not look up or straighten when they came to a stop. After a moment, they exchanged a concerned glance.

"You asked for us?" Sybil said.

Robert nodded, his jaw working, but he still did not look at them.

Sybil swallowed. "I'm sorry to hurt you, Papa, but you won't be able to change my mind."

"I know," Robert answered, his tone short. He finally straightened and turned to look at them. They stood quietly, enduring his gaze.

Robert narrowed his eyes at Tom. "I noticed that you let the others do most of the talking. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Swallowing, Tom straightened his shoulders. "There's been too much deceit and too many lies," he said. "I'll grant you that."

Robert gave a short, bitter laugh. "You will? How generous of you."

"But I promise you," Tom continued, "I have nothing but Sybil's best interests at heart. I love her."

Robert rounded on him with a harsh gesture. "You're threatening to carry her off to a  _war zone!_ "

Tom's nostrils flared and he gritted his teeth, but when Sybil opened her mouth to speak, he stilled her with a hand on her arm and shook his head.

"No, I'm not," he answered, addressing Robert. Sybil's head snapped round to look at Tom. "Even if you cast her off, I'll not take her to Ireland until the present unrest dies down. I believe in her. I think she'll be a brilliant physician, with or without your support, and I will do all I can to ensure she succeeds. As Matthew's partner, I now have the means." Tom paused. "But it would be a great deal easier to do it  _with_  your support."

Robert frowned at him for a long moment. "And if she does not qualify for an entrance?"

"Then she can train to become a proper nurse, if she wishes," Tom answered. "But I'll not attempt to force your hand with threats to her safety."

Robert looked at Sybil, who was frowning slightly up at Tom. "You seem rather surprised by this development."

Her eyes flashed to him and she swallowed, then smiled. "It only makes me love him more, Papa."

Robert sighed, half-turning towards the fireplace. "What does Dr Clarkson say about all this?"

Sybil frowned. "He doesn't approve. He thinks attempting both marriage and medical school at the same time is too difficult."

Robert nodded. "Would the medical school even permit you an entrance if you're married?"

Sybil and Tom exchanged a glance.

"Dr Henley said we must be married in secret," Sybil admitted.

Robert blinked and stared at her. "The dean of the medical school approves of...this?" He waved his hand at them.

"Cautiously," Sybil answered. "But I will take all the risk upon myself should we be discovered."

"This is a dangerous game you want to play," Robert observed. His glance moved to Tom. "You would really marry my daughter in secret? Wouldn't that offend your  _pride?_ " He said this last in a slightly sneering tone.

Tom smiled. "On the contrary, I have great pride in her love and I will strive to be worthy of it."

"But you just said that there has been too much deceit and too many lies," Robert pointed out, shaking his head and giving a short, mocking laugh. "You speak with a Janus-faced finesse."

Tom sighed and nodded. "From a certain point of view, you're perfectly right," he agreed. "But I couldn't care less whether the world approves of us. What I don't want to do any longer is hide our relationship from your family."

"But ultimately, you don't care what we think," Robert replied. "You'll persist in taking her away from everyone who loves her, no matter what we say."

"He won't be taking me away from you, Papa," Sybil answered quietly. "Not if you give us your blessing." She stepped forward with measured steps, until she could touch her father's sleeve, and she spoke in a soft tone. "You're the one who has the power to split the family."

Robert's brows drew down. His jaw working, he turned to face the fire. Sybil's hand fell away from his sleeve and with a saddened nod, she moved back from him, taking up her place beside Tom. They watched Robert for a long moment and then, with quiet sighs, they left the room.

* * *

Sybil pulled up in surprise when they emerged from the library, for Edith and Anthony stood a few paces away, beside the stairs, obviously waiting for them. Edith took a step forward and held out her hand. Sybil looked at it in confusion until Tom, beside her, accepted it and shook it.

"Welcome to the family," Edith said firmly.

Tom nodded. "Thank you, Lady Edith."

"'Edith', please." She smiled, her expression taking in Sybil as well. "Congratulations."

Sybil felt something inside her ease a bit. "Thank you."

Stepping forward, Anthony shook both of their hands, although they were obliged to use their left hands with him.

"I admit to feeling a bit left out," Edith said, as the four of them began to walk towards the sitting room, on the far side of the great hall. "But really, I'm just glad to be away from it all. I have plenty to keep me occupied."

"You seem much happier now," Sybil agreed.

Edith smiled up at Anthony, letting her hand brush against his, and he smiled back.

"So what are your plans?" Edith asked Sybil briskly. "I don't suppose Papa gave you his blessing."

"Not as such..." Sybil replied with a frown. "But he didn't throw me out, either."

"Mary and Cousin Isobel told us everything, and Anthony and I have been talking," Edith said. "We want to help you with your school expenses, if necessary."

Sybil's mouth fell open and she stopped walking, and the other three paused as well. Edith glanced at Tom, but he only gave her a tight smile and a nod before he looked at Sybil, whose eyes were moving quickly from Edith to Anthony and back again, her mouth open.

Sybil put her hand on her chest and her eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "Oh, do you mean it? Truly?"

At Edith's and Anthony's nods, Sybil covered a small sob and gave Tom a wide-eyed look of disbelief.

Edith stepped forward and clasped Sybil's hand. "You can do this. I _know_  you can. And I look forward to watching you succeed."

Grinning, her tears spilling down her cheeks, Sybil pulled Edith into a hug. Tom and Anthony stood a moment, watching the sisters embrace. Then the men's eyes met over the women's heads.

"I don't know how I can repay you," Tom said to Anthony.

"Take good care of her," Anthony replied with a smile.

Tom nodded, swallowed, and smiled back.

"There you are!" Cora called, emerging from the sitting room. "Whatever is keeping you?" She saw the four happy faces and her own expression softened slightly as she approached Sybil. Sybil wiped at her eyes and held her mother's gaze a moment, then Cora looked at Tom. "Come into the sitting room," she said calmly. She stood back, including all four of them in her gesture. "Everyone is waiting for you."

* * *

Cora finished seeing that everyone was comfortable before she went looking for her husband. He still hadn't come through, and she sighed in frustration. Sometimes the English were just impossible, so fixated on their propriety and traditions and class differences. Although she might understand the hallowed precepts, she didn't hold with most of them. What did it matter that Branson had been the chauffeur? He certainly wouldn't have been Cora's first choice for Sybil, but Cora could imagine much worse fates than marriage to a kind, intelligent, well-spoken, attractive man who was willing to support his wife as she went through medical school—whether  _that_  pipe dream ever came to fruition—and whose prospects seemed to be on the rise. Sybil would most likely enjoy a comfortable middle-class life, perhaps even an upper middle-class one if she began her medical practice. So it was really long past time for Robert to emerge from the library and be civil.

Whatever she had been expecting when she entered the library, it was not the sight that greeted her: Robert, sitting on the sofa beside the fireplace, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands. She hurried over and knelt on the floor before him.

"Darling?" she murmured, touching his knee, and Robert lifted his head to look down at her. She realised his eyes were red-rimmed, as though he'd been crying. "It's not so terrible, truly. Sybil loves him. So does Matthew."

Robert exhaled a bitter laugh. "If he just had a scrap of humility—"

"What do you want him to do?" Cora asked sharply. "Genuflect and call you 'Master'?"

Robert's expression hardened and he looked to the side.

"I know I'm an American, but I rather like him," Cora said, her tone softly teasing now. Robert closed his eyes and shook his head, his frame relaxing a bit. She took it as a cue to push herself to her feet—he steadied her—and she settled down beside him. "If what Mary says is true, he's behaved properly towards Sybil and they've waited patiently for years. I quite admire that. Isobel says this hasn't been a rushed thing; Sybil has had quite enough time to decide, and she's chosen Branson. We must respect her decision, Robert..." Cora trailed off, watching her husband's expression closely. His eyes were distant and his face was tight with worry. Whatever this was, it wasn't solely about Branson. "What is it?"

"I wasn't going to tell you," Robert sighed. "Not until after Matthew and Mary had left..."

Cora frowned. "You're scaring me."

Robert suddenly rose and stepped up to the fireplace, where he put his hand on the mantel and stared down at the flames. "I've made a terrible misstep," he said tightly. Cora watched his back, seeing the tension there, and tightly clasped her hands together in her lap. Robert turned to look at her. "I...made a bad investment during the war. I've lost half the money."

Cora blinked, putting her hands down on the sofa to steady herself. "'Half'? What do you mean 'half'?"

"I invested half of your fortune in a single enterprise, and it failed." He swallowed, clearly fighting to keep his composure. When he finally won the battle, he moved to sit back down beside her. He took her hands and gave her a sad smile. "I must thank you darling, for prompting me to reconsider my  _original_  plan, which had been to invest the  _whole_  of our money in that enterprise. We would be having an entirely more horrible conversation right now if I'd gone through with it." He touched her cheek. "You have given us a reprieve, at least. Matthew believes there is still a chance for us to pull through, although only a slim one."

Cora smiled sadly and pressed her hand to his as he drew away. "Don't thank me," she said. "Thank Matthew and Mary."

Robert's brows drew down. "What?"

"It wasn't Matthew's idea to meddle," Cora said quickly. "He'd overheard your plan and he was concerned. Mary extracted it from him, then came to warn me. That's why I confessed my fears to you and recruited your mother to the cause."

Robert exhaled a shaky laugh and looked down. "Oh, thank God for you all...!" But his expression grew bitter. "And yet how unfortunate you should be, stuck on a ship with such a captain at the helm!"

Cora pressed her lips together and drew herself up. "You've done a better job of navigating the rough waters than many men in your position. I'm grateful that you're at the helm."

He only shook his head.

"I expect we'll need to change the way we do things," she said.

He looked up at her, apology in his eyes. "You might dislike the changes."

"Don't worry about me," she answered, smiling. "I'm an American. Have gun, will travel."

His eyes grew damp and he drew her close for a brief kiss. When they parted, she lifted her chin.

"Now, about this business with Sybil and Branson..."

Robert sighed. "I must be  _quite_  sure of her. The financial loss changes things. Medical school is a large expense, and it would be a waste of money we do not have to spend if we supported her and then she had to leave school because their marriage was discovered, particularly if she is found to be with child."

"I know," Cora agreed with a frown. "Their plan seems foolish. And yet, I cannot help wanting them to succeed."

Robert sighed.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"I don't know yet. She's put us in such a position! If we make a big flap about Branson, it will become a story that people talk about: the earl's daughter who ran away with the chauffeur."

"The  _former_  chauffeur," Cora corrected. "He's practically middle class now."

Robert shook his head, closing his eyes with a soft chuckle. "What Mama would say if she could hear you now."

"She's become quite fond of Matthew."

Robert opened his eyes. "She's not the only one." He sighed and looked at Cora. "How did we come to this place, after all our efforts?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "One married to a thoroughly middle-class lawyer, the second to a baronet of no consequence who is twice her age, and the third engaged to an upstart Irish  _former_  chauffeur?"

"It could be worse, Robert," Cora replied, raising her eyebrows. "If our first plan had worked, Mary would be the Duchess of Crowborough, as miserable and withdrawn as the current sad mouse who holds the title, and Edith would probably have become our nurse in our old age."

"What a dreadful thought," Robert said, then winced. "But the thought of Sybil married to even a  _former_  chauffeur isn't much more appealing."

"Then perhaps it's for the best that they have reason to keep it quiet. And just think, if they don't make their marriage public until after she's established, by then everyone will have quite forgotten that Branson was the chauffeur."

Robert exhaled a short laugh and dropped his head, giving a heavy sigh.

"Well, whatever you decide, I will support you in it," Cora said. "You are a good man, Robert, and a good father. And I'm proud of you for working through Matthew's proposed changes to the estate. I know it must be difficult for you to contemplate."

"It's not as difficult as I expected," Robert answered. "But it requires...an adjustment."

"Such is life," Cora observed, getting her feet. "Now. Come out and be a proper host. We don't have much time left with Mary and Matthew before the move, and everyone is anxious to mend fences."

Robert sighed and stood. "Yes, my dear."

And they went out to face the storm together.


	37. Chapter 37

_37_

**Wightstead, September 1920**

Mary stood looking out the second-storey bedroom window, watching smoke curl from a dozen chimneys in the cool of the morning. The sound of a motor rattled by outside and she let the curtain fall with a sigh, turning away from the view, and walked straight into the corner of her vanity.

"Argh!" She hissed and gritted her teeth, then slowly let out her breath.

Reaching out, she steadied herself against the nearby bedpost and rubbed the sore spot on her thigh with her other hand.

Her gaze moved across the bedroom in annoyance, skimming over the familiar furniture in a place that, even after nearly five months, still did not quite feel like home. Matthew's armchair and dresser lined the far wall, and his armoire stood beside her own against the adjoining wall, leaving only this corner for her vanity. In her present condition, she refused to consider a smaller bed. Perhaps when Isobel left, they might turn the guest room into Matthew's dressing room.

Mary released her grip on the bedpost and tried to flex her hand, but her thickened fingers refused to close into a fist and she gave up with a frown. Straightening, she wove carefully between the bed and the vanity. Matthew would be returning home this afternoon. Perhaps he and Tom could see about rearranging the furniture then. If the vanity were moved to the other side of the bed—but no, then  _Matthew_  would likely be the one injuring himself on the corner. She could manage. She just had to be more careful, more patient in her movements. She'd never felt so inconvenienced when she was carrying George, but then he hadn't gone to full term. This baby seemed quite content to stay the course. Looking down with a smile, she paused and rested a hand on her swollen belly, wondering who this new child would be.

There was a clatter downstairs, and the sound of raised women's voices. Mary sighed. She really ought to go down and see what was the matter. She had permitted herself quite enough delay; Anna had gone back down ages ago.

But it was only the late morning, and already Mary felt weary to her bones.

Lifting her chin and bracing herself, she opened the bedroom door and descended the stairs.

* * *

"You cannot leave the bairn in my kitchen!" Mrs Harrow barked at Nanny Hollis, a dishcloth in one hand and a dirty glob of dough in the other. "Look at this mess!"

The nanny had scooped up the crying George and was making calming noises, rocking him.

"It's not  _so_  bad," Isobel protested. "Just dust everything off a bit, scrub here and there if needed, and pop them right into the oven. The heat is sufficient to kill off any harmful germs."

"I'll not serve dirty rolls to the lady!" Mrs Harrow snapped. "This wee fiend is not fit to be here!"

Isobel bristled, but Anna stepped in with an upraised hand.

"That's enough!" Anna hissed, glaring at the cook. "If you must yell at someone, direct your anger at me. He was in my care."

Mrs Harrow turned on Anna. "I  _am_  directing my anger at you!" With an exaggerated show of difficulty, Mrs Harrow lowered herself to her knees. "This'll set me back an hour's effort. Don't blame me if there's only cold parritch for lunch!" Anna bent to help the cook pick up the globs of dough from the floor, but the irate woman batted Anna's hand away.

Straightening and gritting her teeth, Anna looked at the nanny. "Is he all right?"

"Is  _he_  all right?" the cook muttered from beneath them, but Anna kept her gaze locked on Nanny Hollis, who nodded.

"I'll go put on his mac," the nanny said calmly. "It looks like there might be a spot of rain."

"I'll come help," Isobel agreed.

Anna stepped aside as the nanny moved carefully around the overturned tray of uncooked rolls and Mrs Harrow, who was still grumbling under her breath.

"What's all this?" Mary's irritated voice came from the hall as she opened the kitchen door. Nanny Hollis paused directly before her and Mrs Harrow's muttered imprecations immediately ceased. The cook quickly finished gathering the rolls on to the tray and stood—again with some difficulty. Mary's tired eyes flickered over George and Isobel and then rested on Anna, the senior servant in the room.

"There was an accident, my lady," Anna replied. "I was to watch Master George while Nanny took a brief break—" Anna's eyes glanced in the direction of the bathroom, "—but I took my eyes off him a moment and he overturned Mrs Harrow's tray of rolls."

The skin around Mary's eyes tightened, but she only nodded. She looked at the nanny. "You'll be taking him out for his morning walk, I expect?"

"Yes, my lady," the nanny answered. Mary gave her son a tired smile and caressed his leg as the nanny moved past her in the hall, Isobel on her heels.

"Is any serious damage done?" Mary asked Mrs Harrow, when the kitchen door had closed again.

"No, m'lady," the cook replied, "but there is no place in here for a wee one."

"I'm inclined to agree," Mary said, eyeing the hot, cast-iron stove.

"I'm sorry," Anna put in, glancing between them both. "I was coming in to fetch the grocery list for today's shopping and needed to discuss an item with Mrs Harrow. I'll not let it happen again."

"I should hope not!" Mrs Harrow shot Anna a superior look.

"That's enough," Mary said sharply to the cook. "I'll thank you not to raise your voice in this house again. Anna has made her apology, and as I see it, there's no harm done. Are all the rolls lost?"

"No," Mrs Harrow replied, a sullen note in her tone. "But lunch will be late."

"Very well," Mary said. "Carry on."

* * *

Anna found John in the front parlour, repeatedly pushing a carpet sweeper over a spot in the floor and glaring at the unsatisfactory results.

"Why don't you just try the Hoover?" she asked.

"It's too loud," he replied, pressing more of his weight on the carpet sweeper as he tried again. "I didn't want to add to all the racket."

Anna sighed and leaned against an armchair, watching her husband.

"Ah!" He finally succeeded at sweeping up whatever crumbs Master George had most recently embedded in the carpet.

"I have the list. Are you ready to go?"

"I am," John replied, limping past her with the sweeper in hand. She followed him out into the hall, passing Nanny Hollis and Isobel, who were tugging Master George into his mackintosh and galoshes, amidst his protests. John put the sweeper in the hall closet and Anna passed him, going through the kitchen and back up to their apartment to fetch her hat. He met her there a minute later, shopping basket over one arm and his stick hooked over the other. She glanced at him in question as she lifted her hat, then gasped when he pressed her firmly against the wall and lowered his mouth to hers.

"You'll make me bend the brim!" she protested faintly, giggling as he promptly dropped the basket and the stick and tossed her hat on to the floor behind them.

"I'll make you bend more than that," he growled under his breath, grinning back, and covered her lips with his own. She responded warmly, running her arms up over his broad shoulders as he took her in his embrace.

"We should really be going," she murmured, some time later. "Someone is going to notice us missing."

"They think we're shopping," he answered.

"So what will they think when we reappear in the kitchen?"

"Let them think what they will," he said, running a hand over her bare hip. "I'll not care a whit."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to his lips, then rose to dress.

When they did emerge into the kitchen, Mrs Harrow did nothing more than shoot them her usual glare, and Anna was more than happy to be out of the cook's domain. They went out into the garden, crossed to the side hedge, and went round the house to the pavement. The residential street was quiet in the late morning, the occasional lorry or woman pushing a pram their only company.

"Mr Matthew is coming home tonight," John observed.

Anna nodded.

"I thought perhaps we might approach them soon," he continued.

She shook her head. "I don't want to complicate matters now. We should wait until after the baby is born and Lady Mary is back on her feet."

John sighed. "If the birth is difficult for her, that might be a while, and I don't want to delay for so long that Mr Matthew goes away again before we have the opportunity to discuss it."

"I know," Anna replied.

John paused, putting a hand on her sleeve. "You  _do_  want this, don't you?"

Anna gave him a quick, genuine smile. "Yes! Very much." She pressed her lips together and looked away. "It just might change everything."

"That could be a good thing," he said.

She frowned up at him. "Are you very unhappy here?"

"No, not at all," he answered, smiling down at her. "This is a very good situation for us...right  _now_." He sighed. "Although I can't help feeling a bit useless from time to time."

"Well, Mr Matthew will be home with a full week's laundry to keep you occupied, soon enough," Anna said with a grin. "And you could always have another go at that stain in the nursery carpet."

"I'm not  _that_  bored." John chuckled, then jutted his chin towards her pocket. "All right. What's first on the list?"

* * *

"There." Isobel picked up the sheet of stationery and waved it to dry the fresh ink. Pleased with the result, she folded up the letter-paper and tucked it neatly inside the last envelope, pausing to flex her stiff knuckles in annoyance when the paper caught on an edge. She sealed and addressed the envelope, making sure to put her return address as Wightstead. She expected to remain at Mary and Matthew's home for the next couple of weeks, at least until she was confident that Mary had suffered no lasting complications from the birth, and that both mother and child were thriving.

Smiling widely at the imminent prospect of a  _second_  grandchild, Isobel rose and gathered up her writing supplies. When she went out into the hall, the crisp clacking of Mary's typewriter was audible through the office door, so Isobel knocked firmly.

"Come in," Mary answered, her voice muffled by the thick wood.

Isobel took a step into the room. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"You are..." Mary turned away from the typewriter with a smile that became a slight wince as she twisted in her chair. "...but I would welcome the distraction."

"What are you working on?" Isobel asked. She went across to Matthew's desk and rummaged in the middle drawer until she found the sheet of halfpenny stamps, then carefully tore off a row for her letters.

"Oh, just one of Matthew's contracts," Mary replied, turning back to glance at the document she'd clipped to the stand beside the typewriter. The pages were filled with Matthew's neat handwriting, in black ink, and marked up in blue ink in Mary's slightly more flowing script.

She began typing again, then stopped abruptly and exhaled in annoyance. With another slight wince as she reached forward, she partially unrolled the sheet of paper from the typewriter, rubbed out a letter with the eraser wheel and carefully swept away the remnants with the attached brush before rolling the sheet back down into place. Her posture was not perfectly straight as per usual; because of her distended belly, she was obliged to round her shoulders and stretch her arms further forward to reach the top of the typewriter. With a soft hiss, Mary arched her back slightly and kneaded the lower muscles, then resumed her steady, clacking progress.

Isobel frowned as she finished affixing stamps to her envelopes. "You should be resting, my dear."

Mary only shook her head. She completed a few more keystrokes before speaking. "I want to finish this before Matthew comes home."

"What's so pressing?" Isobel said. "Matthew won't be visiting clients on the weekend."

Mary's frame stiffened and she paused in her typing. "I've already fallen behind on what I promised him I'd do," she answered. "I can't afford to put it off any longer."

"He won't hold it against you, surely."

Mary's jaw worked a moment. "I will not disappoint him." The steady clacking resumed.

Isobel came up behind her daughter-in-law and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No, you won't, no matter how much—or how little—work you finish."

To Isobel's shock, Mary stopped typing and her shoulders shook as she curled inward. A small sob a moment later brought Isobel quickly round to face the younger woman. Isobel bent to look at her—Mary had covered her eyes with her hands—and she gave Mary's upper arm a gentle squeeze.

"What is it, my dear?"

But Mary only looked away, twisting slightly to hide her face again. Her lovely features were pulled down in a rictus of pain as her tears increased.

"Oh, my dear..." Isobel murmured, and she bent to hold Mary in a patient embrace. It was a testament to how overcome the younger woman was that she did not immediately try to break away from the circle of Isobel's arms. "Whatever is the matter?"

Mary did not respond, just shaking her head as she pulled a kerchief out of her dress pocket and pressed it to her eyes. Her breath came in quiet gasps.

Isobel waited patiently, giving Mary's upper back a comforting caress.

After a long moment, Mary raised her eyes to Isobel. "I mustn't..." Mary's voice wavered, "...fail at this, too." Her shoulders shook as she squeezed her eyes closed and buried her face in her hands again.

"'Too'?" Isobel asked sharply. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I've ruined everything!" Mary exclaimed, dropping her hands down to her sides in an angry rush, the dampened kerchief still clutched in one fist. Isobel stood back as Mary pushed herself heavily to her feet and paced a few steps away. Mary gave another jerk of her arms, turning and taking in the whole house with her gesture, and laughed bitterly. "I had intended to begin making arrangements to attract new clients for Matthew and Tom, but I have nothing to show for it." Mary's mouth trembled as her eyes took in the room, each sight seeming to only make her more agitated. "My household is in conflict! I have failed to maintain order and those under my charge are unhappy. I can see it when they look at me." The corners of Mary's mouth pulled down again, but she fought it, bright tears forming in her eyes. "George fussed instead of nursing this morning. I couldn't calm him. He wouldn't stay in my arms. He screamed for Nanny instead." Mary hugged herself tightly.

Isobel folded her hands together. "I think you expect too much of yourself."

But Mary only shook her head and looked away, her expression hardening. "I should be able to manage a small household, a single child, and a light workload. Don't tell me that you did any less when Matthew was young."

"I tried," Isobel conceded, "but it takes time to learn the knack of it. I had days when I felt a failure, too."

Mary looked up, her eyes wet and reddened. "You did?"

"Of course," Isobel answered with a smile. She drew close to Mary. "We all do."

Mary gave her a weak smile.

"What you need is female companionship," Isobel said brightly. "Other women your own age who are in a similar place, raising young children and overseeing a household. You'll lift each other's spirits considerably, and laugh at your own foibles when you hear of theirs."

Mary's face fell. "I've tried, but... I've been...forgotten."

"In what way?" Isobel asked, frowning.

Mary gestured at a series of notes, cards, and letters that were spread along the side of her desk. "Politely-declined invitations," she replied, turning away. She sniffed, drawing herself up, and crossed to the window to look out until she had regained her composure. Isobel went to the desk and peered down at the cards.

"Lady Constance Kendall," Isobel murmured, reading the topmost envelope. "Who is she? Have we met?"

Mary dried her eyes and shook her head, her mien once again elegant and distant. "If you did, it may have been at Sybil's ball, before the war. I had counted Constance among my close friends. There was a small circle of us. We'd been presented together, and had shared our first Season." Her expression hardened and she looked away. "Before we had each married, we'd maintained a certain easy acquaintance, visiting one another's homes. Later, we exchanged a few letters during the war, updates on our husbands and brothers, and our charitable efforts, for the most part, and Mama and I had them all to luncheon at Grantham House only the summer before last. They were polite and friendly enough at the time, but there was a certain distance that I hadn't expected. I'd dismissed it then, but it's become quite impossible to dismiss now."

Isobel's heart squeezed. "Because you married Matthew?"

Mary nodded, still looking out the window.

"There is  _no one_  among them whom you can still count as a true friend?"

Mary drew in a deep breath, exhaled. "Lady Caroline, who most likely would have remained friendly, died when the Spanish 'flu..." Mary swallowed, her eyes meeting Isobel's a moment. "But Frankie remains warm and open in her letters."

"Mr Napier's sister? Oh, how is she doing?" Isobel asked. "I did so enjoy her conversation when we last met...before young Harry was born, was it?"

Mary nodded and chuckled softly. "Frankie is married and has a daughter now, Matilda. Her husband is a much older man, Viscount Pendleton. She speaks fondly of him."

Isobel smiled. "I should like to meet him, then."

"Me, too," Mary agreed, but then she frowned. "Their estate is in Lancashire."

"You could telephone her."

"I could."

"Do you have any other friends in London?"

Mary shook her head, shrugging helplessly. "I suspect the rest would be no more eager to see me than this lot."

Isobel drew herself up. "So make new friends, then. Ask Mrs Harrow to bake some pies, and go introduce yourself and George to the neighbours."

Mary frowned and looked out the window again. "A few came by when we first arrived, but they've kept a polite distance since then."

"They're probably taking their cues from you," Isobel observed. "I'm quite sure they know who you are, and they don't wish to give offence. You are in a position to greatly influence the social life here, if you choose to make use of it."

Mary sighed. "I'm just a curiosity to them."

"So become a friend," Isobel replied. "No matter the difference in your backgrounds, I expect you will find that you have more in common than not." Isobel smiled. "I have certainly discovered that with your grandmother."

Mary chuckled and her frame finally began to relax. She tucked her kerchief back in her pocket. "I must confess, I'm rather jealous of Matthew and Tom. They spend more time at Downton now than I do." She sighed. "I knew I would miss it. I just didn't know  _how much_  I would."

Isobel nodded and came to stand beside Mary at the window. "It's not just the place, though, is it? It's everything that it represents."

Mary turned away from the window, going back to sit in front of the typewriter. "Yes. But that's all behind me now. It's no use crying over spilt milk. I must do what I can, and right now, if I can aid Matthew in his work, I will."

Isobel frowned slightly, watching as the younger woman found her place in the document and returned to her typing. After a long moment of this silent observation, Isobel collected her stamped envelopes and crossed to the door.

"Thank you," Mary said, turning to look at her. "Truly."

Isobel nodded, gave her a quiet smile, and went out.

* * *

"Da da da da!" George exclaimed, waddling in a determined fashion towards the side window of the front parlour. "Da!"

Isobel looked up from the tower of blocks she'd been building. "George, dear, look! I've made you a new tower!"

"Da da!" George cried, ignoring her and trying to heave his chubby little body on to the armchair under the window. Nanny Hollis gave him a boost just as a rumbling motor cut out outside, under the window.

"Oh, Mr Matthew's come home," the nanny observed, glancing out. "No—Master George, don't climb on the sill. Just stay... Here, hold on to the chair-back."

"Da! Da!" George exclaimed, excitedly bouncing without lifting his feet. "Da!" He batted his chubby palm at the window, putting little handprints on the glass.

"He's got very good hearing," Isobel observed, chuckling at her grandson's antics. He was leaning towards the window with a wide, open-mouthed grin on his face.

"Da!" he shouted at the window, then emitted a string of unintelligible, excited burbles.

"Come along, Master George," the nanny said, picking him up from the chair.

"I'll bring him." Isobel carefully got to her feet, then dusted off her hands and held them out. George accepted her embrace willingly enough, but he was all protests and straining back towards the window as she carried him into the foyer, trying to shush him. George fussed until he heard Matthew's footfalls on the front steps and the turn of the doorknob. At that, George twisted and stared.

Matthew's face lit up when he saw his mother and his son waiting to greet him. George let out a screech and buried his face in Isobel's neck. Matthew chuckled as he stepped inside, bending to give his mother a kiss on the cheek before he ruffled George's hair.

"He was excited to see you only a moment ago," Isobel said, smiling.

Matthew set down his briefcase, satchel, and bag, and made to drop his coat and hat on the pile until Bates appeared, efficiently taking the clothing from him.

Matthew grinned. "Thank you, Bates."

"Good afternoon, sir." Bates's answering smile seemed relieved.

Matthew and Isobel stepped aside as Bates picked up all the bags and carried them off. Matthew's gaze was focused wholly on George.

"How's my dear little chap?" Matthew asked softly, prying his son from Isobel's neck as she handed George over. George huddled against Matthew without looking at him, and pushed his thumb into his mouth.

"He's done well today," Isobel said, glancing towards where Nanny Hollis stood in the parlour, her hands folded together, nodding. "Nanny took him for a walk in the park and he had beetroot for lunch."

"Beetroot!" Matthew exclaimed in pride and mock horror. "What a good boy you are!"

"Beetroot is  _sweet_ ," Isobel protested, "and a great, fun mess to play with."

Matthew made a face. "Beetroot is vile, Mother—" He craned his neck in an attempt to catch George's eye. "—although I will agree it makes for a great mess. Did you stain everything pink, Georgie boy?"

"We put him on an old sheet in the garden while he ate," Mary replied, grinning as she came into the foyer, "and he had a bath directly after. So yes, but the damage was contained."

Matthew's eyes lit up at the sight of his wife and Isobel smiled to see it, but his glance was only brief.

"What else have you been doing today?" Matthew asked George softly, his tone eager to hear every mundane detail. George lifted his head and looked towards the front parlour. Following his gaze, Matthew spotted the pile of letter-blocks on the floor in front of the fireplace. "Ooh! Building towers?"

George looked up at him with wide eyes. "Bada gaa!" He wriggled in Matthew's arms, throwing his small body towards the parlour.

This was apparently a confirmation and Matthew chuckled, immediately bringing George into the room to play. The two were soon engaged in an energetic game of building and happily-shrieked demolition.

Isobel smiled and glanced at Mary beside her. Mary's eyes were soft as she watched the scene. Isobel saw the joy in her gaze, but there was something in the set of her mouth, a line of tension, that reminded Isobel of their conversation a few hours earlier. Isobel returned to watching Matthew, who was wholly engaged in playing with George and had not spared a second glance for Mary.

Isobel frowned slightly. She would not meddle. What took place between her son and his wife was none of her concern. But still she worried.

* * *

Mary followed Matthew into his study, entering the room as he peered into his satchel. Bates had left the bag and Matthew's briefcase on the swivel chair in front of the desk. Matthew rolled back the desk cover and set down a thick manila envelope, then pawed at his stack of post as Mary closed the study door.

"How was your trip?" she asked in a polite tone, standing straight and folding her hands over her belly.

"Torture, without you there," Matthew answered. He quickly crossed to her and cupped the sides of her face. Bending forward to accommodate her protruding belly, he pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. She stiffened at first, but by the end of it, she exhaled a barely-audible sigh of pleasure.

Despite this, she gathered herself and smoothed out her dress as he drew back.

"That's a rather over-dramatic description, surely," she said.

He only chuckled and shook his head, reaching out to still her hands. He bent his head to look at her with a slight frown. "How are you, my darling, really?"

"Well," she replied, meeting his eyes and giving him an intentional smile. "Between your mother, Anna, and Nanny, I'm not allowed to do a thing." Her smile relaxed slightly. "But I did manage to type up the contracts for Mr Uxbridge and for Kyp and Knight's." She gestured towards her desk. "I put them in the top left drawer, to keep them away from George. He made rather a mess of the two bottommost drawers yesterday. The papers were scattered everywhere. I haven't had a chance to sort them yet."

Matthew gave her a half-smiling frown as he went towards her desk, pulling open the aforementioned drawers, which looked neat enough. "What's this?"

"Well, your mother tried to put all the papers back, but they're not in their proper folders, not how you like them."

Matthew waved a dismissive hand at the drawers and pushed them shut again. "Never mind that. I can sort them later." He was smiling. "How did he get into them?"

Mary's smile faltered. "It was Nanny's tea. I had been reading to him, but he wanted to play on the floor, so I sat and read a magazine while I watched him. But then I realised it was too quiet and I looked up and saw that he'd got in here..."

She felt the corners of her mouth start to pull down, so she quickly looked away, her gaze falling on the bottom of the bookshelf nearest her. Or, rather, at the stacks of papers and ledgers blocking access to the bottom shelf. She'd meant to have those moved upstairs, but she'd forgotten. Matthew didn't like the overflow from the office to remain in his study; this room was his sanctuary in the house, and he wanted to be able to pluck any book from the shelves at will. She felt a sudden urge to cry, but blinked it back and frowned. What was coming over her? It was merely a pile of papers. There was no use crying over it.

"This looks very good," Matthew said, from across the room. Mary looked up. He was flipping slowly through the pages of one of the contracts.

"I know you left me the Hale papers and Sir Lionel's will revisions, but I haven't finished those yet." She tried to flex her hands but they resisted, her fingers feeling thick as bangers. She frowned down at them in dismay.

"Oh," Matthew answered, sounding distracted as he read something more closely. After a long moment, he finished with it and went over to lay the contract down on his desk. "Well, that's all right. Although I really ought to ring Mr and Mrs Hale before this week is out, to inform them of the delay." Matthew fished his diary out of his briefcase and flipped through it, murmuring to himself, "It's been a month already. Murray won't be pleased."

"I can work on those papers some more tomorrow," Mary offered, her stomach twisting. She swallowed the knot back down and put a pleasant expression on her face.

"If you like," Matthew answered absently, giving her a quick smile as he laid his diary down on his desk and bent to finish writing. He closed the diary and started to walk away from the desk, but Mary put up a hand.

"Anything you want to protect from George, you really ought to lock up," she said, a wry smirk tugging at her lips.

Matthew chuckled and returned to his desk. He pulled down the roll-top and locked it, then moved his briefcase and satchel up to a nearby shelf. "There. Is that high enough?"

"Yes."

Matthew grinned at her. "A year old and into everything!"

" _Everything_ ," Mary agreed, letting him take her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently in response and released him, turning to pull open the door. Going out into the front office, she skirted past the drafting table as she spoke. "We've had to move every bin in the house up off the floor. Nanny follows him around and tries to keep him occupied, but he sets to screaming whenever he's thwarted from playing with the rubbish, so we've found it's just easier to remove the temptation."

"Ah," Matthew replied, glancing round the room as he followed her through. "I was wondering why the bin is on top of the filing cabinet."

They moved through the space, the corners of which were piling up with the detritus of property analyses and the remains of more than a year's worth of notes and other documents.

"Did you make any progress on finding an office to rent?" he asked.

Mary shook her head, her gut twisting again. Her lower back ached and when she reached the door that led to the foyer, she leaned against the frame to rest a moment.

"I'm afraid I haven't felt up to travelling round the city these past two weeks," she bit out in annoyance.

Matthew's warm hand pressed against her sore back. "Of course not, darling, I'm sorry."

He looked as though he wished to kiss her, but at George's sudden squeal they both glanced across the foyer to the open door of the front parlour opposite. They smiled at the sight of Isobel kneeling on the floor beside her grandson, who was taking great delight in knocking over the small wooden block towers she was building, while Nanny Hollis stood looking on from her spot near the fireplace. The nanny noticed Mary and Matthew watching the scene and smiled at them.

Matthew smiled back and glanced down at his wristwatch. "We have an hour before dinner..." he suggested to Mary, a glint in his eye.

"A  _half_ -hour," Mary corrected him. "Aunt Rosamund's coming and it's going to be a  _proper_  dinner, you know that. I've had Bates lay out your things." Matthew sighed, and Mary frowned. "You  _did_  tell Tom, didn't you?"

"Yes." Matthew gave her a look of fond exasperation, then smiled. "But that's still enough time to see to your back, so up you go. You should rest before our guests arrive."

"I'm not in fragile health," she protested quietly, but she went up the stairs ahead of him. Receiving even a brief massage was a welcome prospect.

"I never said you were," he replied, caressing her bottom. She blinked in disbelief. She was taking each step so heavily and felt as though she were waddling—how could he find this gait attractive?—but still she smiled to herself. Now that he was returned, she did so want to have him all to herself for a few minutes. His touch was soothing, and really, she wanted something more than a mere massage.

But her chest was beginning to feel tight, so she focused on her breathing; she didn't want to appear winded when they reached the top of the stairs. He'd insist on coddling her if he noticed any distress.

"How did your meeting with Evelyn and Mr Blake go?" she asked, controlling her voice.

"It didn't."

"What?" She frowned and twisted briefly to look back down at him, but the movement was aborted by her heavy form, so she continued up the stairs, drawing in a determined breath.

"The arrangements weren't going to work, between our travel and theirs," he explained.

"You can't keep putting this off."

Behind her, Matthew sighed. "It's not intentional, darling."

They reached the top of the stairs and turned towards their bedroom, Mary drawing in slow, deep breaths and keeping up an even pace. Perhaps she ought to make some enquiries, and arrange for a dinner party with Evelyn and Mr Blake within the month. If Matthew and Tom were to be successful in establishing a new firm, she would need to try harder to make use of social connections to attract and maintain business prospects. This was as good a place to begin as any. But one could not simply invite the men directly; it was far better to invite their wives or mothers, and let the women make the arrangements. Mary knew nothing of this Mr Blake, and Evelyn's mother had passed away many years previous. So were there women to whom Mary should write, extending an invitation that would include the two men? Frankie could most likely shed some useful light on the situation. Mary frowned, considering who else might be a suitable prospect for an invitation.

Matthew followed her into the bedroom and closed the door, but when he pulled her back into his arms with a soft groan, all thoughts of business fled as he reminded her of an altogether more pleasurable occupation.

* * *

"Don't  _touch_  the pudding!" Mrs Harrow hissed, and Anna drew back with a frown. "I'll tell you when it's ready to come out."

John came through from the dining room, shooting Mrs Harrow a frown as he spoke to Anna. "Could I have a hand?"

"Gladly," she answered, escaping the kitchen. When they were safely out of earshot in the quiet of the dining room, she muttered, "Don't blame  _me_  if the pudding is burnt."

John shook his head and smirked at her. "I won't." He bent to lay out a place setting, and Anna took up a handful of silverware and went round the table to lay out another. They worked efficiently together, and when they neared the far end of the table, John finally looked across at her. "I've been thinking. We ought to approach them tonight, before they retire. It'll be a quiet moment."

Anna met his glance, then went back to adjusting the placements of each item in front of her. "I'll consider it, but if Lady Mary is too weary..." Anna shook her head.

"Of course," John agreed. He straightened up and reached for his stick. "I just don't want to delay a moment longer than necessary. We'll need to make plans, if they aren't willing to accommodate us."

Anna pressed her lips together, but nodded.

He turned to look at the row of three decanters and three matching bottles of wine that he'd set out on the sideboard. "Now. Which of these would you say ought to be served first? I'm afraid I've never been much of a connoisseur."

"Neither am I," Anna replied with a grin, coming round to join him. "I prefer sharing a pint at the pub with you."

"True," he said, playfully jutting his elbow against her. "But you've served at table with Mr Carson long enough to have learned a thing or two."

"Very well, Mr Bates," Anna agreed, putting on an air of toffee-nosed authority. "The white should be served first. But let me show you how to properly decant the claret; there's an art to it."

John's eyes darted towards both of the closed dining room doors as leaned close to her, and he smiled as he stole a kiss. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Matthew helped Mary lower herself to the bed, then flopped down beside her with a long sigh of contentment. She turned over to face him, her swollen belly resting against his bare hip. She lay with her eyes closed, quieting her breathing, a light sheen of sweat on her skin. Tendrils of hair clung to her temple and neck, and he reached out to brush them back, letting his knuckles drift down to caress the swell of her breast. She gave a low, satisfied hum and smiled, still not opening her eyes.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips; she made a brief response with her own and opened her eyes to look at him.

Her smile widened. "You missed me."

"God, yes," he breathed, cupping her breast and kneading it gently. "I should think that was obvious."

She gave a contented sigh as her eyes drifted closed again. "I can't say I disapprove," she murmured, "but I still don't understand how you find this—" She gave a brief wave over her belly. "—attractive."

Matthew slid his palm over her taut skin. There was no movement from the child within, but there would be later, probably just as they were trying to fall asleep this evening. Matthew often felt the kicks and turns then, when his arm was draped over them both. While he'd been away, he'd missed falling asleep with the feeling of new life surging under his hand. Although it must be tight quarters now; with the pregnancy gone to full term this time, it was a wonder there was any room for the child to move. His child.

Smiling, he drifted his fingers down Mary's back until his hand reached the underside of her thigh, and he pulled her leg up until her knee rested on his. When she gave a happy sigh and shifted her frame to match the new position, he fell to idly stroking her skin, then paused with a frown.

"What's this?" he asked, lightly running his fingertips over a dark blotch on her thigh.

Mary's leg twitched slightly, but she didn't pull away. "It's nothing. I just...walked into my vanity."

Matthew's frown deepened and he pushed up on one elbow to take a closer look. The wide bruise was dark, but misshapen, with greenish-yellow edges. "More than once, I would say." At Mary's answering sigh, Matthew looked round the cramped bedroom. "I'll move it," he said. "I don't need my armchair in here right now. I'll put that in the spare room."

"You'll have to find a space between all the boxes and maps," Mary observed dryly. When Matthew returned his gaze to her, he saw her beautiful brown eyes on him. He smirked and settled down beside her again.

"It'll all be out soon, I promise," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead in apology. She hummed softly, closing her eyes, and settled a hand on his hip. Drawing back, he smiled. "Now, where were we?"

"We were getting ready to dress and prepare for our guests," she answered, but didn't remove her hand.

He rubbed her damp skin with his thumb and smiled. Mary on any day was a sight that made him smile and often rouse, but in this state—when she wasn't struggling to breathe—she was full and warm, with an undeniable womanhood that made her even more deeply beautiful. Her cheekbones had softened slightly, her breasts had filled out, and even her legs and arms were rounder. He had always found her slender figure attractive, but this fuller version of her pulled at something deep in him. Pride in his ability to bring her to this, certainly, but also admiration of her strength, and a fierce desire to protect her. Well, he wouldn't be forced to go away again for some time. Murray had granted them three weeks' leave.

Three weeks in which to reunite and enjoy this time together. Matthew's smile widened. He reached up and plucked her nipple, causing her to inhale sharply and open her eyes, giving him a look of amused reproach.

"You're not asking to go again so soon, surely," she said.

He chuckled. "No...although I wouldn't object to another round after supper."

Mary gave a mocking groan and closed her eyes again.

"Don't pretend you don't want it, too," he said, caressing her thigh. "I heard you before. You'll be asking again, soon enough."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, her tone haughty.

His hand drifted down and she moaned. He gave a little laugh. "We just finished and you  _already_  want more."

"Well, if  _you_  hadn't finished so quickly, I might have  _had_  more," she replied, a little grumpily, batting at his arm.

He chuckled and kissed her. "Challenge accepted. You'll not escape me tonight."

She pushed drowsily at his chest with a mournful groan. "Tonight. The dinner party. We must dress."

"You're right," he murmured, sliding away and down. "That sounds an eternity. We mustn't make you wait that long."

Mary's eyes flew open. "Matthew! What are you—?" But he spread her legs, pushing her on to her back, and lowered his head. Her words cut off with a moan as she writhed slightly. "Matthew—wait—we'll be late...oh!"

His fingers continued what his tongue had been doing as he lifted his head with a soft laugh. "In your present state, no one will hold it against you, darling." He lowered his head again.

"But I—" she hissed in pleasure and grabbed hold of the bed sheets with both hands, speaking through gritted teeth. "—will hold it against  _you!_ "

He chuckled, the low sound coming from somewhere on the far side of her enormous belly. "You certainly will..." He hummed in encouraging pleasure, and the sound, the warm touch of him playing on and within her, sent her over the precipice again with a soft cry.

* * *

As Sybil hurried down the hall towards the back of the house, she glanced over her shoulder at the knot of people in the foyer. Rosamund was exchanging pleasantries with Matthew and Isobel, Mary was keeping the adorably-clad George from making an excited, squealing escape out into the front yard, and Bates was taking coats and hats. Sybil quickly opened the door that led down to the basement, then noticed Anna emerging from the kitchen. Giving the housemaid a quick smile, which Anna returned with a knowing glint in her eye, Sybil slipped down the stairs and pulled the door closed behind her. There was the sound of firm tapping coming up towards her and Sybil smiled as she descended the steps. She bent forward eagerly.

When Tom came into view, she saw that he was wearing black tie, but he'd removed his suit jacket and his sleeves were rolled up. His waistcoat and trousers fit him well. He was driving even rows of small nails into new wall-boards, and nearly half the far wall looked finished. The remaining exposed bits of insulation and wiring and pipes interested her a moment, but her gaze soon fixed back on him, travelling over his figure as she continued to smile.

He paused a moment with his hammering and her heels clicked in the brief silence as she reached the bottom of the stairs. He immediately turned round and, seeing her, matched her grin with his own. He dropped the hammer on the worktable and they were together in two quick strides, a wordless greeting that spoke volumes. When they finally parted to breathe and laugh softly together, Sybil wished she could just chuck the dinner party upstairs and spend the rest of the evening alone down here with him.

"We only have a minute or two," Tom murmured, not loosening his embrace in the slightest.

"Mmmm," she answered, and kissed him again. Everything about the way his body felt against hers, the way he smelled, the way he moved, left her hungry for more. She licked her lips and shifted into a comfortable embrace, resting her forehead against the side of his neck. He smelled of something but it wasn't overpowering, and she closed her eyes with a sigh. "God, I've missed you!" she said, feeling his answering groan. With a final squeeze, she reluctantly stepped back, and he released her. "How were your travels?"

Tom, whose eyes were glowing at her in the low basement light, paused a moment before he answered, and the glow dimmed as he looked away with a shrug.

"The usual," he said. He looked back at her. "How are your studies going?"

"The same." She rolled her eyes. "Wiggins is a taskmaster, but he knows the material."

"Do you think you'll be ready in two weeks' time?"

She glanced aside and shrugged, letting her fingers drift against Tom's upper arm when his hand found her waist again. "I don't know. I'm hopeful. If he didn't think I have a chance, he wouldn't still be bothering with me, so there's that." She nodded her chin at the construction. "How's it coming along?"

He shrugged and dropped his arms, turning to gesture at the wall. "I've made some progress, but not as much as I wish. I'm just never here for long enough."

"That's all right," Sybil said. "You won't be travelling for at least a few weeks after the baby is born, so you can make more progress then."

Tom pulled a face. "Yes, but I doubt Lady Mary would appreciate someone pounding away while she and the baby are trying to rest."

"The sound is muffled," she replied, drawing closer to him. "I didn't hear your tapping at all while I was upstairs."

He made a distracted, vague noise of agreement as they kissed softly.

A discreet knock sounded on the basement door and they both looked up towards it.

"That's probably Anna," Sybil murmured. "She saw me come down. Everyone will be going in to sit now. We mustn't draw attention."

Tom sighed and nodded. He gave her a tight-lipped smile, which relaxed and widened into a genuine one when she pressed up to kiss him one last time. Unrolling his sleeves, he allowed Sybil to affix his cufflinks to each one, smiling at the small furrow of concentration between her brows. Then, grabbing his discarded suit jacket, he quickly shrugged it on and followed her up the stairs.

* * *

"If Robert can buy out Simpson and Tucker," Matthew said, sitting back to allow Bates to refill his wine glass, "quite a chunk of the estate will be back in hand. He'll be operating a real business."

"And if it works," Tom agreed, "he'd be farming a third of the estate directly."

"He's become quite taken with it all," Isobel observed, wiping her mouth with her napkin. "Before I left, he was talking of pigs with great gusto."

Tom nodded. "He's finally found a good pig-man, young Mr Drewe."

"There's an example of how others are also benefitting from the changes," Matthew observed. "The Drewes are allowed to keep their tenancy, and there's a new job opportunity."

"But not everyone is benefitting, surely," Rosamund said, her eyes narrowing.

Matthew nodded, his gaze flickering to the table, but then he smiled and lifted his eyes. "Robert isn't letting anyone fall through the cracks."

"He's a good landlord," Sybil said quietly. There was a quiet murmur of agreement.

Mary made a sudden, sharp inhalation and Isobel, seated beside her, immediately set down her utensils.

"Mary, are you quite—?"

Mary put up a hand, a careful smile on her face. "I'm fine. Please, don't mind me. I just...bit my tongue."

Mary's hand had gone to her belly, under the table, not to her cheek, but Isobel did not press further. As conversation resumed, Isobel shot a look at Matthew, who only smiled at her. She frowned, glancing between him and Mary, but the two of them were not looking at one another. The only person who met Isobel's worried gaze with a matching look of concern was Anna, but the maid merely carried a plate towards the kitchen and disappeared through the door.

"I hear Papa has been trying to recruit you and Matthew for the house cricket team," Mary said lightly, to Tom.

"I told him I won't play," Tom answered. "Besides, it doesn't seem right. I don't live there any longer and I'm not yet officially a member of the family."

Matthew gave him a look. "Admit it: the real reason you refused is because you don't know how to play."

"Freely," Tom replied with a grin. "And I've no intention of learning."

"Ah, well," Matthew sighed, giving his plate a rather jaundiced look before selecting another bite to eat. "I don't expect we'll be at Downton during the annual match, in any case."

Rosamund set down her glass. "Did you have a chance to visit Edith and Anthony while you were there?"

"Oh yes," Matthew answered, smiling. "Mother and child are doing quite well. Little Peter has the brightest shock of ginger hair."

A chuckle went round the table at this news, but Mary frowned as she watched Matthew leave his remaining food untouched. The beans were limp, but she had thought their odd taste only a result of her own peculiarities while she was with child. Various tastes and smells repulsed her now that normally did not affect her otherwise. But if even Matthew did not want to eat this course—

As discussion of Edith's new son continued, Mary beckoned Bates over, and he bent down slightly at her gesture.

"My lady?" he murmured.

"Clear away these plates and bring out the roast at once," she said quietly.

He gave her a nod and strode to the kitchen door. Isobel was watching her, so Mary smiled and smoothed her napkin on her lap, fighting down a rising sense of inadequacy. A short while later, Bates and Anna reappeared, Anna with the main course on a large platter, which she set carefully on the sideboard. The two of them swiftly cleared the table and served up the new course, and the conversation momentarily slowed as everyone began to eat. The roast was too salty and dry, however, and Mary quickly dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and frowned. Soon after Anna had disappeared into the kitchen with the cleared plates, a general air of reluctance grew at the table, and Mary's stomach twisted in knots as she watched everyone politely trying to hide their distaste for the meal. She met Rosamund's glance and burned with shame, despite her aunt's commiserating smile. Mary saw that Bates had also noted the mood at the table, and his expression was stricken as he began refilling everyone's water glasses.

"Ethel was much the same at first," Isobel said gently to Mary, setting down her fork and reaching for her wine glass. "But Mrs Patmore took her in hand and now the girl is doing quite well. I could see if Mrs Patmore is willing to share her recipes."

Mary gave a polite nod of thanks, struggling to keep her bearing although she felt everyone's eyes on her.

"So you've taken Ethel on?" Tom asked Isobel. He gamely took another bite of the roast and then dug into his mashed potatoes.

"Yes, several weeks ago." Isobel smiled. "She's a very hard worker, a bright young woman."

"What of her little Charlie?" Sybil asked, and the table quieted.

Isobel blinked and pressed her lips together, looking down. "His grandparents...came to take him away a few months ago."

Rosamund looked round the room. "What's all this?"

"Ethel was one of Mama's housemaids during the war," Mary explained, picking up her glass as she met her aunt's eyes. "Her son's father was an officer, a patient at Downton. He died during the last days of the war."

Rosamund's mouth made a silent 'ah' and she gave a slow nod.

"She's rather alone, to be honest," Isobel said suddenly, into the awkward silence. "Word has spread about her in the village and she's being treated abominably." Sybil made an annoyed noise and Isobel looked up with a grim nod. "Cousin Violet has been trying to find her a suitable new position, but Ethel is reluctant to move too close to London—her son's grandparents live near here—because she fears that she wouldn't be able to resist trying to see him." Isobel pressed her lips together again and drew in a deep breath. "I only wish I could do more."

Mary met Matthew's gaze across the table, seeing his pained expression. The situation was regrettable, but what could be done? Mary's heart clenched at the thought of being forced to give George up and never see him again, but she set her jaw and looked away. Ethel had made her decision and now she had to live with it.

Everyone poked at his or her food and Mary frowned down at her own plate, desperately searching for a way to rescue the conversation. This was supposed to have been a celebration, the first real dinner in their new home, and a cheerful night off for Sybil, who would once again be sitting the medical school entrance exam in only a fortnight. Mary lifted her head and turned an intentionally-cheerful smile on her sister.

"Have you and Tom decided when to wed?" Mary asked, glancing between them, and everyone lifted their heads, warming to the new topic. "Have you heard back from the dean yet?"

Sybil nodded, smiling. "Dr Henley has agreed to meet with us in mid-November," Sybil answered, then sobered. "Assuming that I pass the exam this time."

"You will," Isobel said, giving Sybil a warm smile. Sybil looked down, hope clearly tugging at her lips.

"We're still trying to work out where to have the ceremony," Tom said. "We want to avoid the public record of having the banns read, but I haven't yet found a priest or vicar willing to waive that requirement."

"Of course not," Mary said. "There are good reasons why clandestine marriages are discouraged."

"But those reasons don't apply to us," Sybil protested.

"Our original plan had been to go to Gretna Green..." Tom continued.

Rosamund winced, but Matthew leaned forward. "It's not a terrible idea," he said, and everyone looked at him. "You can be married without the banns if you're willing to give up having the ceremony in a church." Tom frowned as Matthew went on. "But there's a complication: Scottish law requires twenty-one days' residence in the country for at least one of the parties before a marriage can be performed."

"I wonder how Shrimpie and Susan are getting on," Rosamund mused. "It's been several months since we last spoke. I could have them to dinner."

"But would they agree to host us at Duneagle if Papa does not approve of us?" Sybil asked.

"Shrimpie and Susan might not need to know  _everything_ ," Rosamund answered shrewdly.

Tom and Sybil exchanged a frowning glance.

"They're likely to say yes, as Matthew and I haven't been up to Duneagle since before the war," Mary agreed, setting down her wine glass. The glass wavered slightly as another spasm tightened her abdomen, but she thought she did a more creditable job of hiding this one. The spasms might mean something, or they might not. In any case, there was quite a long time between them, and they weren't powerful, just mildly distracting. There was no need to break up the dinner party just yet. "We used to go there every year. A holiday in the Highlands  _would_  be a welcome change."

Rosamund raised her eyebrows and met Mary's gaze with a knowing smile. "Yes, I believe it would."

"Could this really work?" Sybil asked.

"We shall see," Rosamund answered, sitting forward, her eyes alight with the prospect of organizing a new scheme. "Whether or not Shrimpie and Susan know our true purpose, we would need to arrive under some other pretence, if we are to avoid drawing attention."

"Perhaps Christmas?" Mary suggested.

Rosamund chuckled. "Oh yes, that would do nicely."

"We wouldn't be able to marry until the end of December?" Tom asked, choking slightly on the words. He flashed Sybil a look of alarm.

Mary eyed him with some exasperation. "You'll need to spend at least three weeks in Scotland to meet the residency requirement, not to mention at least a week's honeymoon before you bring Sybil to meet your family in Dublin," she said, "and I can't see you disappearing in November for a five-week trip without raising questions." Her gaze moved to Matthew. "What would you tell Murray? Could you find some plausible excuse earlier than Christmas?"

Matthew shifted and shot Tom a commiserating glance. "Taking a long Christmas holiday wouldn't draw as much notice," Matthew admitted. "She has a point."

Tom's jaw worked and he glared at the table. Sybil watched him with wide eyes. She put a hand on his arm and he looked at her, his expression softening until he relented with a sigh.

"Of course I do," Mary said, spearing a bit of food.

"Don't you have any clients in Scotland?" Isobel asked Matthew and Tom.

Matthew shook his head. "A few, but winter's not the season for tramping about the countryside, evaluating the land, particularly so far north. No one's calling us up there right now."

Mary looked at Rosamund. "So it's settled, then?"

Rosamund gave her a firm nod. "I'll do my best, but I can make no guarantees. If Susan doesn't extend the invitation, it might all be for naught."

"And how could we secure an invitation for Tom?" Sybil asked. "He's not family."

"Leave that to me," Rosamund said. "Even if he isn't invited to Duneagle, he's perfectly capable of taking a room somewhere and meeting you for the wedding."

Tom exchanged a worried glance with Sybil. Then she gave him a bracing smile before returning to her meal.

"It  _would_  be nice to see dear Rose again," she said, looking at Mary. "I haven't seen her since before the war. She must be nearly eighteen by now, wouldn't you say?"

"She is," Isobel answered, and Mary, Sybil, and Rosamund all turned to stare at her in surprise. Isobel continued cheerfully, "She's a delightful young lady, very much looking forward to being presented."

"How would you know that?" Rosamund asked.

"She's living with Cousin Violet at the Dower House," Isobel answered, unconcerned. "We sat together at dinner the night before I left."

"When did Rose move to Downton?" Mary asked, nonplussed.

"She arrived last week," Matthew replied. "I thought you all knew. Cousin Violet didn't seem to think it a secret."

"So Shrimpie and Susan aren't in London at the moment?" Rosamund asked sharply. "I would have thought his position with the Foreign Office was keeping him here."

"Oh, it is," Matthew answered.

Mary blinked and frowned. "...so  _why_  is Rose living with Granny?"

Isobel shrugged. "Lady Flintshire wrote to ask if her daughter might stay at the Dower House for the next few months, until Lord Flintshire's work lets them leave London. Something about how much Rose hates the city and wanted to get away."

Sybil and Mary exchanged an incredulous look.

"This is  _Rose_  we're talking about?" Sybil pressed.

Isobel frowned. "Lady Rose MacClare, yes?"

At Sybil's and Mary's nods, Isobel smiled and returned to her meal.

"I suspect young Rose is more eager to get away from her  _mother_ ," Mary observed. Rosamund chuckled, but Matthew shot Mary a 'don't be horrid' look. Mary arched her eyebrow in return. "Don't be too quick to judge me, darling. You haven't met Lady Flintshire."

Matthew opened his mouth to retort, but just then Mary grabbed the table's edge and hissed, dropping her fork with a clatter as she curled towards her plate.

"My lady?" Bates took a quick step towards her, from where he'd been standing near the sideboard.

"Is it time?" Isobel asked calmly, rubbing Mary's back, and Mary nodded, breathing through the pain. When the cramp eased, she sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief. "I thought it might be," Isobel said, nodding to Sybil. "Come along, then."

Bates strode quickly towards the kitchen, beckoning as he opened the door. He murmured quietly to someone on the other side.

"Shall I telephone the doctor?" Matthew asked, getting to his feet. He had gone rather pale. A wide-eyed Tom quickly rose beside him as Sybil and Isobel helped Mary to stand.

"Yes, but there's no need to rush," Isobel answered. "We're still in the early stages. Ring him in a quarter-hour, after we've made her comfortable and we're sure things are progressing."

"I'm sorry to cut our evening short—" Mary began, but everyone waved her off.

"Never mind that, my dear," Rosamund said with a smile, nodding as Anna hurried into the room, saw what was happening, and went out directly with a determined expression on her face. "We'll see ourselves out. Tom, you're welcome to ride with me; Hurley can drop you at your flat. Sybil, I assume you're staying the night?"

"Yes," Sybil answered, glancing back over her shoulder as she ushered Mary towards the hall. "Would you be willing to bring me some suitable clothing? My nursing uniform is in the bottom drawer of the dresser."

"Certainly," Rosamund replied, as she stepped out from her place at the table. "I'll return in an hour."

Sybil's eyes met Tom's. "Wait for me?"

He nodded, and the three women went out, leaving Matthew, Tom, and Bates to stare at the empty doorway.

"Well," Rosamund said briskly to Bates, as she rounded the table. "You'd best fetch the whisky and some glasses. This might take a while."

* * *

When Sybil entered the study, Matthew was standing in front of the window, his hands gripping the wooden moulding on either side as he stared blankly out at the grey, overcast light of early dawn. Tom slumped behind him in the armchair, a glazed, weary expression on his face. A half-empty bottle of whisky stood beside two drained tumblers on Matthew's desk.

Tom lifted his eyes to Sybil's as she came in, and the look of dread and fear in his expression gave her pause. She'd come down the stairs with a smile on her face, but the sight of the two men reminded her that it was likely neither of them had endured such an experience before. By now, Sybil knew what to expect and she knew that Mary had done very well.

Sybil swallowed, giving the moment the gravity it deserved. She waited until Matthew had released the window frame and turned, flexing his stiff fingers, before she smiled gently at him.

"You have another healthy son," she said.

His mouth dropped open and he took half a step towards her, his eyes wide in a pale face. "And Mary?"

Sybil grinned. "She's perfectly well and resting."

"Oh, dear God, thank you!" Matthew exclaimed, his whole frame relaxing. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides, grasped her shoulders, and pressed a kiss to her forehead before rushing from the room. Sybil laughed and turned to watch his giddy delight as he disappeared up the stairs.

When she turned back, she saw that Tom had gotten to his feet.

"She's well, truly?" he asked.

Sybil nodded and stepped up to him, sinking into his embrace with a tired, but happy, sigh. "Mary did brilliantly."

Tom's arms tightened. "But it sounded so...awful."

Sybil chuckled. "She's not one to hold back, is she?"

Tom shuddered and pressed his face into her hair. They stood a moment in silence.

"It makes me glad we won't be putting you through that any time soon," he murmured.

"If all goes according to plan," Sybil replied. She drew back. "Are you terribly upset about waiting until Boxing Day?"

"Not a day longer," he begged in a whisper. "Please."

"No." She nuzzled him and he pressed his lips softly to hers. When they finally parted, she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he rested his cheek against her forehead.

"I appreciate the effort that Lady Mary and Lady Rosamund are willing to go to on our behalf," Tom said, "but I don't like the idea of lying to Lord and Lady Flintshire while we enjoy their hospitality."

Sybil straightened with a sigh and a nod. "I agree." She lifted her eyes to his. "Lady Flintshire can be...difficult. But I like Shrimpie. I think he can be trusted with our secret. Is that good enough for you?"

Tom regarded her a moment with narrowed eyes, then nodded.

"If my marks are good, I'll go visit him before Mary and Aunt Rosamund set their plans in motion."

"Thank you." Tom smiled and cradled her head against his shoulder again. "Matthew and I have been talking. Lady Rosamund is right about how careful we need to be to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. The neighbours will talk if we're seen moving in at the same time. We've agreed I should move in before I finish the basement."

Sybil lifted her head in surprise. "But where will you sleep?"

"I'll take the guest room when Mrs Crawley leaves," Tom answered. "Besides, if I'm living here, it will be easier to make progress on the rooms, and once one of them is fit for a bed, I'll move downstairs."

"But haven't you signed a lease with your landlord through the new year?"

Tom nodded. "We'll move all the boxes and sundries out of the spare bedroom upstairs—we need to begin readying it for you, anyway—and Matthew wants to stop using this front room—" Tom gestured towards the adjoining parlour, "—as a makeshift office. We'll work out of my flat until we find a proper office to rent."

"I'll need some bookcases upstairs," she mused. "And a desk."

"If we put an armoire, a dresser, a vanity, and bed up there too, it might be rather tight."

She chuckled. "No, I'll only use the upstairs room to study." She lifted her head and looked up at him with a grin. "Put those next to your furniture, downstairs."

"As you wish." He grinned back.

"I'm warning you, though," she said, her lips tugging up into a teasing smile. "If I'm accepted into the programme, I'll eventually be coming home at all hours, and likely waking you up when I get in."

His grin only widened and he hummed briefly, rocking his stance in amusement as he drew her close. "I'm counting on it."

He silenced her giggles by kissing her quite thoroughly.

* * *

Matthew sank down on to the bed in awe, reaching out to take the tiny bundle from Mary. She pulled back a bit of the swaddling blanket to watch the wide-eyed little features as the baby took in the world.

"'Charles Robert' suits him well," she said. "I think he has Papa's hair."

"And something of Carson's sharp gaze," Matthew agreed, laughing softly. "Oh, look at you! What a darling little chap! He's looking at everything."

"He hasn't nodded off since he came into the world," Mary observed with a contented smile.

"I'll ring everyone with the news after breakfast," Matthew said, chuckling again. "God, look at him!" He gave the baby a little jiggle of delight. Charlie blinked owlishly, and Matthew turned to look at Mary. "How are you?"

"Tired," Mary replied. "But very very happy."

With a smile, Matthew leaned in to give her a kiss. The baby's arms flailed in an uncoordinated fashion, bumping against Matthew's chest. Matthew looked down at Charlie with a grin. "I think he's jealous."

"As he should be," Mary replied. "I'm all yours."

Matthew smiled at her, his eyes damp.

There was a knock on the door and Mary reached out. "That'll be Nanny with George. I heard him crying and asked Isobel to fetch them."

"Ah." Matthew handed Charlie back to Mary and went to usher in the new arrivals. With a grin of delight, he bent to scoop up George and carry him back to the bed.

"Will that be all be, my lady?" asked Nanny Hollis.

"Yes, thank you," Mary answered. With a quick nod and warm look at the baby, the nanny left, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Come meet your new baby brother!" Matthew announced, going round the bed to his side and depositing George in the middle. George crawled directly to Mary and clung to her arm as she displayed Charlie.

"Wa ba?" George asked. He pulled roughly on Charlie's swaddling blanket. Charlie started to cry and shift his arms and legs.

"Let's give this a try," Mary murmured. "First time..." Quickly opening her nightgown, Mary tickled Charlie's nose with her nipple until his mouth opened wide. As soon as he latched on, he began suckling with surprisingly loud gulps for so tiny a person. Matthew laughed. George hit Charlie on the face and the baby gasped, blinking.

"Oi!" Matthew exclaimed, making both Charlie and George jump. Charlie wailed as Matthew pulled George away. "Don't hit your brother!"

"It's a natural reaction," Mary said, comforting Charlie until he settled back into nursing again, his eyes finally falling closed. She looked up at George, who squirmed, red-faced and sobbing, in Matthew's arms. "Come here, darling. Come to Mummy."

Matthew delivered him back to Mary. George climbed into the circle of her free arm and cuddled against her side, his little body still shaking with his sobs.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, bending to wipe George's eyes and runny nose with a handkerchief. "I didn't mean to frighten them."

"It's all right." Her face broke into a wide smile.

"What?" Matthew asked, as he tucked the dampened handkerchief away.

"It's a welcome sensation: comforting all three of my boys at once."

Matthew chuckled and settled back beside her, stroking George's head until the boy's sobs quieted.

"Would you fetch me an extra pillow?" Mary asked, wincing slightly as she tried to shift the now-dozing Charlie without jarring George.

"Of course," Matthew replied. He slipped off the bed, glancing round the room, and when he didn't see any spare bedding, he went out into the hall. The house was quiet in the early dawn, except for a low murmuring that echoed up from the foyer. A moment later, the front door closed and Isobel came into view.

"I just saw Dr Henderson off," she said. There were deep shadows under her eyes, but she was smiling broadly as she mounted the stairs.

"Thank you."

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Yes, only—where are the spare pillows? Mary is nursing and needs to prop Charlie up a bit."

"Oh yes, of course," Isobel answered. She slipped past him and went into her room. "We put all the spare bedding in here last night." She found him a small pillow. "Now, is there anything else you need? I'm rather done in."

"Where's Anna?"

"In bed, I hope. The poor girl was exhausted. I sent her off just as soon as it was over." Isobel shook her head. "She wouldn't leave a moment before, even though I assured her that Dr Henderson and Sybil and I had everything quite under control."

Matthew frowned. "Why did you want her to leave sooner?"

Isobel gave him a knowing look. "Never you mind. Now, can you manage with keeping an eye on Mary for the next hour or so? Bates should be up by then and Mrs Harrow will have breakfast started."

"Yes."

Isobel turned away, then suddenly looked back. "Oh—I'm to tell you that Tom is bringing Sybil back to Painswick House. He'll return in the early afternoon to start moving things."

"Thank you, Mother." Matthew reached for her hand and squeezed it. Giving him a warm but tired smile, she squeezed back, then turned to prepare for bed. As he stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him, Nanny Hollis emerged from the nursery.

"Would you come fetch George?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, sir," she replied. There were deep lines under her eyes, too, but she smiled up at him and followed him down the hall.

"Did you and he sleep at all last night?"

"He got a few hours at first, sir, but not once...well, you know."

"Yes," Matthew replied, glancing at her with an apologetic grimace. He pushed open the bedroom door and looked in. Mary raised her tired eyes to his, then smiled and inclined her head down towards George, who had pushed his thumb into his mouth and was nodding off against her side. Matthew grinned, standing aside to allow the nanny to gather up George and carry him away.

Closing the door behind them, Matthew brought the pillow over and waited until Mary had moved Charlie to her other breast. Matthew propped her up comfortably with the pillow, and she watched as he moved round the bedroom, tugging off his shoes and socks, unbuttoning his waistcoat, and shrugging out of his wrinkled shirt and trousers. He pulled out a set of pyjamas and dressed, then went out to relieve himself. When he returned, he settled in beside her, exhaling a long, happy sigh.

"You are such a  _wonderful_  mother!"

Mary smiled. She nursed for a few minutes more while Matthew watched with rapt attention and then, reaching down, she gently broke Charlie's latch with her index finger. He was fast asleep when she gave him to Matthew, who held the baby and stared at him in awe while Mary extracted herself from the blankets and pillows and swung her feet to the floor.

"Can you manage on your own?" Matthew asked, frowning at her in concern when she stood up. She was steady on her feet, but moving very slowly.

She shook her head. "I can walk, but best come with me, just in case."

"All right." He rose, still cradling Charlie, and escorted Mary to the bathroom and back. When they'd finally returned to the bedroom and laid Charlie in the bassinet, the full weight of Matthew's weariness settled upon him. He made sure Mary was comfortable and, drawing her close, he fell asleep only moments after his head landed on the pillow.

 


	38. Chapter 38

_38_

**One week later**

When Lady Rose MacClare stepped out of the cab in front of Wightstead, she looked up at the two-storey red brick residence. A picket fence surrounded a neat but small lawn, and a gate opened on to a short flagstone path. Three steps led up to a dark green door, which, like all the windows, was surrounded by white trim. The house was something of a letdown, after all that Rose remembered of her cousin Mary. Mary had always seemed so tall and elegant, so clever, and Rose had been sure she would one day become a Countess or even a Duchess.

But when Rose had learned that Mary was to spend the rest of her life married to a middle-class lawyer, the whole thing had seemed a laugh. What a coup! Mary had found a way to escape the suffocation of upper-class life, for love, without ever once going against her parents' wishes. The whole affair had made Rose want to giggle.

It was something different, however, to actually see Mary's house now; the plainness of it, the sense of stability and, well, boredom. Rose frowned.

"Please wait here. We'll be back out in a short while," Cousin Robert said to the cab driver.

"Come along, Edward," Cora said, helping her son step down on to the pavement.

"We'll see Georgie?" Edward asked.

"Yes, he's inside," Robert answered, grinning as he turned away from paying the cab driver. "Let's go in!"

* * *

Rose gave Matthew a polite smile as she sipped her tea, but she couldn't help glancing at the clock above the mantelpiece. Across the room, Cousin Cora and Mary were talking of the children, while on the sofa to Rose's right, Matthew spoke quietly with Cousin Robert and held the sleeping baby Charlie. All the initial greetings and cooing excitement over the new grandchild had passed. Now Edward played with George on the floor before the fireplace, arranging and rearranging a set of wooden blocks while George babbled happily. The whole scene was quite idyllic and charming, but Rose could only fidget. To be so  _close_  to  _him_  and yet so unable to do a single thing about it! She looked towards the door again. The butler, Bates, was standing beside it. He glanced at her in question, but she only looked away and took another sip of her tea. How much longer were they to stay here?

Rose looked at the sleeping baby. He had a soft dusting of brown hair and an adorably tiny face, cradled there in his father's arms. Rose's gaze lifted to Matthew. He was nice-looking enough, but a rather boring chap. Rose had imagined someone a bit more dashing, for him to have prompted Mary to accept him before being sure he would remain Cousin Robert's heir, but aside from a pair of striking light blue eyes, Matthew was a bit bland. He was tall, to be sure, and his smile was open and friendly, but where was the  _spark?_

That wasn't to say that Rose disliked him, but just that she wondered what Mary had seen in him. Mary remained as elegant and poised as ever—although perhaps softened slightly by motherhood, with a freer smile—but in these surroundings, there was something missing, and Rose frowned.

"I'm just struggling to put together a good house team," Cousin Robert was saying, gesturing in frustration. "We've so few men in the house now. The village thrashed us last year, so we've got to give it back as good we got."

"Cricket," Mrs Crawley murmured with a wry smile, sitting beside Rose on the sofa. "I'll never understand the men's obsession with it." Rose chuckled as Mrs Crawley set down her teacup. "So what brings you up to London again so soon?" The older woman asked. "I thought you hated the place and wanted to get away."

"Who told you that?" Rose asked.

"Lady Flintshire mentioned something of the sort to Cousin Violet," Mrs Crawley answered, frowning slightly.

"Darling Mummy," Rose said, putting on a smile. "I'm planning a surprise for her, and I need to be here to arrange it."

"Well, can't you stay with your parents?" Mrs Crawley asked.

"No, that would spoil everything." Rose brightened her smile.

Mrs Crawley frowned. "But won't your mother mind when she discovers it?"

"No," Rose replied. "She'll be delighted and so grateful that everyone helped with my secret. Besides, with dear Cousin Cora as my chaperone, what harm can I come to?"

At this, Mrs Crawley gave her a curious look, so Rose glanced quickly towards the baby.

"He's so beautiful," she murmured.

Mrs Crawley followed her gaze, and Matthew, smiling at Rose's words, looked down at his son with pride.

"I think we should take our leave," Cousin Robert finally announced, and Cousin Cora nodded, leaning close to say a few final words to Mary.

"Jarvis just finished a survey of the tenants," Cousin Robert said to Matthew. "I was hoping to discuss it with you and Tom. We'll be staying at Rosamund's for the rest of the week. Could you come by tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?"

"Certainly," Matthew answered, cradling the baby and rising carefully beside Cousin Robert as the older man stood up. "I'll check with Tom, but I expect we can be there."

"Excellent. Edward, come along," Cousin Robert said, beckoning to his son, and the boy leapt gracefully to his feet.

George trailed after Edward, bursting into tears when they all went to the door, but Matthew gently handed off the still-sleeping baby to Mary and picked up George, quieting him with soft murmurs. In the foyer, Bates returned everyone's things while Rose made her goodbyes, tickling George's foot as she went, and grinning when she elicited a brief giggle from him.

"It was nice to see you again," Matthew said to her. "You're always welcome."

"Thank you," she replied, "and congratulations."

Matthew smiled. "Good luck arranging your surprise."

Rose gave him a tight smile and hurried out.

* * *

"What was that about a surprise?" Mary asked, watching as their four guests got into the waiting cab.

"I'm not sure. She's arranging some sort of secret gift for her mother," Matthew answered.

"Really?" Mary narrowed her eyes. "I'm beginning to suspect Lady Rose MacClare may prove to be rather a handful."

"I think you might be right," Matthew replied, waving as the car pulled away from the kerb.

* * *

"Rosamund!" Cora greeted her sister-in-law with a smile, ushering Edward into the foyer of Painswick House and gesturing for him to give his hat to Mead.

Rosamund returned her smile. "How lovely to see you all! Robert. Rose, my, how you've grown! I almost didn't recognise you!" Rose gave her a polite nod, and Rosamund looked down at Edward. "How's my favourite nephew?" Edward only stared back up at her, so Cora moved in quickly.

"I'm afraid he's rather worn out from the day's travels," she explained.

"Oh, that's quite all right." Rosamund glanced at Mead, who nodded as he collected the rest of the bags and hats. "I've had Mrs Andrews make a special treat for you, Edward. Would you like that?"

Edward looked up at Cora, who smiled encouragingly down at him, so he nodded to Rosamund.

Edward's governess emerged from the green baize door at the far end of the hall and the boy's eyes lit up.

"Go along," Cora murmured, nudging his back. Edward hurried to take his governess's hand.

"I'll go fetch your treat, Master Edward," Mead said, giving the boy a warm look, and the butler moved past, taking the coats and hats out of sight.

The governess led Edward into the library. "Come, Master Edward. Let's see what interesting new books we might find!"

"Now," Rosamund said, turning to Cora, Robert, and Rose. "I know you're here because you all have lots of things to do, so just run about and do them."

"I'd like to go up and change," Cora said, glancing at Robert, who nodded as he moved to her side.

"I've a gala to attend this evening—I'm sorry, I can't put them off," Rosamund explained, clasping her hands together in apology, "but all the preparations have been made for you to dine here tonight. Sybil will join you."

"Where is she?" Robert asked, glancing round.

"Buried in the library with Mr Wiggins," Rosamund answered. "You won't see her until Mead rings the gong. She said she's not to be disturbed. She and Mr Wiggins will join you briefly for supper and then they'll retire to the library again. There are only a few days left before her exam. Now, I did think we'd have dinner together tomorrow, and then we can all have a proper catch-up."

"Oh," Rose said. "We could always just—"

"I insist," Rosamund replied. "A good family gossip will be my payment in kind."

"Of course." Cora nodded. "We'd be delighted."

"Good." Rosamund smiled. "Dinner is served at half past eight."

"I hope you don't mind," Robert put in, "but I invited Matthew and Mr Branson to dine here tomorrow evening. I've got a round of meetings in the morning and I need to look in at my club, but they'll likely be here in the afternoon to discuss business."

"Certainly they're welcome," Rosamund replied with an easy smile, leading the way towards the stairs. "The more, the merrier."

Rose watched the three of them heading towards the stairs, exchanging pleasantries and chuckling. When she saw that they were quite absorbed in their conversation as they went up, she sidled towards the open drawing room door, then stepped inside and quietly closed it behind her. She glanced about. Oh good! She'd guessed correctly. There was the telephone!

She hurried over to it and lifted the mouthpiece. "Hello, operator? Knightsbridge 4056..."

* * *

The house was dark and silent, and Mary sighed when she saw the thin line of light at the bottom of the study door. She quietly stepped up to stand before it and, bracing herself, she twisted the knob and went in.

Matthew was sitting in his armchair, his legs crossed, reading. He did not look up from his book, although she had made no effort to hide her entrance. As she pushed the door closed, the grandfather clock in the front parlour chimed three times, its tones sonorous and muffled through the walls.

"Come back to bed, darling," Mary murmured, drawing close to him. She watched a silent sigh move through his frame, and his shoulders sank slightly. She moved around the back of the armchair and gently ran her fingers up into his hair. Nothing was guaranteed to make him drowsy so much as a scalp massage, and she smiled in satisfaction as he dropped his head and sagged further in his chair. After a minute of enjoying her touch, he exhaled a long sigh and lifted his head, turning it in her direction.

"Is Charlie asleep already?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That was quick."

"He dozed off while he was still nursing," Mary said. "I didn't even have to walk with him."

Matthew chuckled. "He's much easier than George was."

"Thank God." Mary ruffled Matthew's hair and smiled.

Matthew sighed. "I'm sorry."

"I know. I'm not upset with you, truly. Come back to bed."

"But what if it happens again? You need your rest. So does Charlie."

"I'll sleep more deeply knowing you're beside me," Mary replied. "And he sleeps for most of the day; he'll be fine." When Matthew didn't respond, Mary frowned. "I promise not to speak until I'm certain you're awake," she said softly. "I'm sorry if I made it worse."

Matthew turned his head, lowering it and drawing it away from her still-stroking fingertips, and he lifted a hand to cover his face. His shoulders shuddered.

Mary immediately came round the chair and pulled up the footrest to sit on. She put her hands on Matthew's knee. "Darling, look at me. Tell me what it was."

He shook his head and let his hand fall away from his face as he stared past her with that empty, distant expression that haunted her so. Tears glistened around his eyes. "Just...the usual when you speak," he answered slowly, his voice rough. "I'm on a battlefield. When I hear your voice, I try to reach you, but something falls on me, trapping me, and I can't get to you. This time it was a tree that exploded nearby. All I can hear is you screaming my name, while the shells are whistling overhead and the ground is shaking, and then—" his voice caught. "—a bayonet."

Mary winced. "I'm  _so_  sorry, darling. I forgot. I'm so accustomed to quieting Charlie by speaking to him."

With an effort, Matthew moved to refocus on her, and a ghost of a smile lifted his lips as he uncrossed his legs and reached out to squeeze her hand. She gave him both of her hands, and he set his book aside to hold them in his.

"I do love you so terribly much," she said. "Come back to bed. You've a long day tomorrow and you need your rest. Papa can be a demanding taskmaster, and Aunt Rosamund an exacting hostess."

Matthew chuckled and dropped his head, nodding. When he lifted it, his expression was weary.

"But what if I wake you and Charlie again?"

Mary gave his hands a squeeze and straightened. "Then we shall simply calm everyone down and find our way back to sleep. We can stay abed for longer tomorrow morning. I have no need to rise early and you needn't leave the house until eleven, isn't that right?"

Matthew nodded.

"Well then," Mary said, rising and tugging him to his feet. "Come back to bed."

He rose, and his eyes seemed to be glistening anew as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly for a long moment. She turned her face and pressed her lips against his neck.

When he released her, she looked up at him and said, "I promise not to speak, Matthew. I'll just touch and kiss you, as you asked. You have my word."

"I know," he answered thickly. "I'm not angry with you."

She smiled and pressed up to kiss him. "Come now."

Drawing in a deep breath, he smiled back and obeyed.

* * *

"It's not just loyalty," Anna replied, pushing another pin up into her hair as she held her bun in place with her other hand. Early morning light streamed into the small, neat, simply-adorned bedroom. "I know we have the money from selling your mother's house, but we don't have enough yet."

"We could afford the inn at Crompton," Bates said, as he pulled on his waistcoat and began buttoning it.

"Yes, but then we'd have very little left to live on, and what if it needed work done, or business was slow? No." Anna finished the bun and patted her hair, turning her head from side to side as she inspected her reflection. "I want to make sure we can buy the place outright, with enough set aside for repairs and business costs for the first two years, and also a bit on top of that, in case the need arises."

"That would be ideal, but you're asking for quite a lot."

"No." Anna smirked at John in the mirror. "I'm just asking you to be patient."

He gave her an amused look, then turned to pick up his suit coat.

"I  _am_  patient, my dear," he answered, shrugging on the garment. He limped over and bent slightly to look at his reflection in the mirror, brushing off a speck of dust on his lapel. "But we don't have much time to sort our immediate future. I want you settled soon, if we must move." His eyes met hers in the mirror before he grinned and bent to kiss her neck. She smiled and batted him off.

"Now, none of that, Mr Bates," she said, composing herself and rising. "We must start the day."

"Yes, Mrs Bates."

* * *

"I just can't stomach the thought of tourists wandering through the library at will," Robert said, nodding to Mead, who refilled Robert's glass.

Matthew frowned. "That was Mary's response when I mentioned the idea to her."

"Well, she was right. It  _does_  sound dreadful," Cora agreed. "We'd have to cordon off portions of the house, and be forced to live in only a subset of the rooms."

"You already live in only a subset of the rooms," Rosamund observed, from her place at the head of the table. Mead moved round the grandly-furnished Painswick House dining room, offering the decanter of wine to each person in turn.

"Yes, but we'd be able to live in  _fewer_  of them." Cora shot Robert a disturbed look.

"Not necessarily," Matthew replied, spearing his last piece of roasted potato. "You could establish limited viewing hours, perhaps only on weekends, for example, and the rest of the time, you'd live in all the spaces you do now."

"But we'd have to post guards to ensure that we weren't robbed, which would be an additional expense." Robert said. "I don't think this is the money-making scheme you expect it to be."

Matthew gave Robert a patient look. "If a servant led the tour, the visitors would never be unaccompanied."

"So I'm to spare servants to take gawkers around my home?" Cora asked. "And what of the extra work to be done if a visitor spills tea in the drawing room or tracks mud across the great hall? Oh, the wear in the carpets...!"

"No, you wouldn't have to offer tourists tea," Rosamund said. "It's a privilege enough to be allowed to see just a portion of the great house."

"Of course, if you wanted to set up a small tea-shop, I'm sure you could create a suitable space," Matthew suggested. "Perhaps an unused basement room, with a pleasant entrance from the outside, but kept separate from the servants' areas?"

"A tea-shop?" Cora echoed faintly.

"It sounds dreadful," Robert muttered.

"I think it sounds charming," Sybil said.

"No one is saying you have to do this," Tom said. "But you asked us for further ideas. There are many prominent families that open up their houses for visiting hours, particularly when they are not in residence."

"And this is not primarily a money-making scheme," Matthew said. "With the changing political climate, it is in your best interests to promote an open and enriching relationship with the general public. Portray the estate as a cultural resource, something that deserves to be preserved for future generations."

Robert chewed his food and frowned, dropping his gaze.

"Where  _is_  she?" Cora suddenly asked, worry creasing her brow. "She swore she'd be back by eight."

Robert looked at Sybil. "You were with her this morning. Do you know where she might have gone?"

Sybil shrugged and shook her head. "She didn't say anything about her plans to me."

"We shouldn't have started without her," Rosamund said.

"Nonsense," Matthew retorted. "She knew when dinner was to be served."

Rosamund frowned at him. "You don't think we should have waited?"

"No," Matthew replied. "Why should your delicious dinner be spoiled just because Rose has forgotten the time?"

"Oh, I shouldn't have let her out of my sight," Cora said, putting down her knife and fork. "I can't eat for the worry! What will I tell Susan if anything has happened?"

"The truth, I should think," Matthew answered. "You couldn't very well lock Rose up. I'm beginning to suspect there's a reason why Lady Flintshire sent her daughter up to Yorkshire."

Robert looked discomfited. Cora sighed and stared at her meal.

There was a sudden whispering at the door, where Mead stood quietly exchanging words with someone out of sight. Rosamund looked up.

"Mead? What is it?" she asked.

The butler gave her an apologetic glance and winced slightly as he stepped back into the room with a glance at the doorway.

"Come on," he said, with a quick, commanding gesture.

A short, round, rather rough-looking fellow appeared in the doorway. He took a couple reluctant steps into the dining room, clutching his grey cap with both hands.

Mead looked at Rosamund. "This is the driver who took up Lady Rose from outside the house, my lady."

The cab driver fixed his nervous gaze on Rosamund. "I came back because she left a scarf in the back of my cab."

"How very good of you," Matthew said to him, smiling in an encouraging fashion.

Mead glared at the cab driver. "Well, go on. Tell them why they sent you up to the dining room."

The man swallowed, still looking at Rosamund. "I know where she is, ma'am. Your maid downstairs said you might like to hear."

Cora's eyes went wide, but Rosamund only said impatiently, "And she was right. Where did she go?"

"First to Warwick Square. To pick up a...friend," the cab driver answered, his eyes shifting briefly away from Rosamund's glare.

"And then?" Robert demanded. "Did you take her somewhere else?"

The man's eyes quickly shifted to Robert's before lowering, and he nodded. "Eventually. I was sat outside for the best part of two hours."

"How very expensive," Rosamund observed in a dry tone, as Robert exchanged a discomfited glance with Cora.

The cab driver swallowed. "When they came out, they said they wanted to go to a club. The Blue Dragon, on Greek Street."

"And what sort of club is that?" Rosamund asked, lifting her chin, her eyes not breaking from the cab driver.

The man shifted, twisting his cap slightly. "Well... You know."

"That's the point," Rosamund replied in clipped tones. "I don't."

"I'll go fetch her," Matthew said quickly, pushing back from his place at the table. "Tom?"

Tom nodded, also getting to his feet. He gave Sybil an apologetic look, and she pressed her lips together in a tight smile.

"I'll come with you," Rosamund announced.

"Are you quite sure you ought to be seen in such a place?" Robert asked, standing as his sister did.

"Never mind that," Rosamund replied, already striding towards the cab driver, who hurried out of the room ahead of Mead, Matthew, and Tom. "My first concern is Rose's safety." Rosamund paused beside the door. "You should stay here, in case she comes back on her own."

Robert nodded and Cora watched anxiously as the search party left.

* * *

The brassy sounds of jazz and raucous laughter percolated up the narrow hall, and Matthew pushed aside the beaded curtain as he stepped inside the Blue Dragon. Warm, cloying air greeted him, heavy with drifting smoke and an earthy scent. His mouth dropped open slightly at the sight before him. A band of black musicians played their energetic tune up on the stage at the far end of the room, and between him and them was a sea of churning bodies. Young women swayed in deeply-coloured, slitted, shockingly-short dresses that clung to their figures, their hair flying free and their hips gyrating to the loud beat. Rouge lent an artificial brightness to their cheeks, and each face was painted in a kind of grotesque exaggeration, with bright red lips and heavily-shaded eyes. Paired with each of them were glossy, well-groomed men dressed in formal black evening wear, their teeth flashing, their eyes hungry, and their hands loose, gyrating along in time with the objects of their lust.

"This is like the outer circle from Dante's  _Inferno_ ," Matthew bit out, his stomach twisting.

"The  _outer_  circle?" Rosamund echoed dryly, coming to stand at his elbow. They peered into the crowd.

"Is that her?" Matthew asked, and jutted his chin in the direction of a young woman in a bright red dress, her head piled high with wild blonde curls. She was dancing ecstatically with a dark-haired, leering man.

"Heavens," Rosamund confirmed. "What a transformation."

Two young women pushed past Rosamund and Tom, who had come to stand just inside the doorway. Rosamund pulled back in distaste, Tom in some alarm.

"And that, presumably," Rosamund continued, her eyes taking in the dark-haired man, "is the 'friend' she spent two hours with in Warwick Square."

Tom fixed his gaze on the mysterious man dancing with Rose and glared at him.

"Let's not start down  _that_  track," Matthew said, watching as Rose kissed the fellow passionately and giggled as his hands slid over her body. When Matthew saw the pair heading for a table at the side of the club, he made a quick gesture to encourage Rosamund to mount the stairs up to that seating area. She was already moving ahead of him, her handbag held before her like a shield as she cut through the crowd. Tom and Matthew followed her to the table, stopping in front of it just as Rose pulled away from another passionate embrace to reach for a glass of champagne.

Seeing them, she gave a start and pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh my Go—! How on earth did you find me?"

The dark-haired man immediately got to his feet with an easy, oily smile, and extended his hand.

Rosamund gave him a sharp-eyed gaze and shook it. "How do you do? I am a cousin of Rose's mother."

"Lady Rosamund Painswick..." Matthew prompted.

"Terence Margadale," Rose said quickly, giving a nervous chuckle as she gestured at the man, who smiled more stiffly now.

"Well, how do you do?" Mr Margadale said politely, waving at the chairs before them as he and Rose retook their seats. "Please sit down."

Rosamund sat, without removing her coat. Matthew remaining standing, as did Tom behind him.

Mr Margadale waved at a passing waiter. "Can you bring some more glasses?"

The waiter nodded, and Tom stood aside to let him continue on through the narrow space between the tables.

"Tell me," Rosamund began pleasantly. "Where is Mrs Margadale?"

Mr Margadale smile affably. "She's in the country at the—"

He cut himself off and exchanged a nervous chuckle with Rose, who placed a hand defensively on his arm as she looked at Rosamund and Matthew.

"Er—Terence used to work for Daddy so he's more of a family friend, really," Rose explained.

"Ah, so dear Shrimpie will be pleased to hear about him, will he?" Rosamund asked.

Rose sat forward with wide eyes, her hand extended in protest. "No, please—"

"Why don't we dance?" Matthew declared, striding past and pulling her up out of her seat as he went. She spun, quickly regained her balance, and hurried behind him as he led her out into the sea of bodies with a firm grip on her wrist. He found an open spot and held her in a relaxed waltz frame, standing straight and tall and leaving plenty of space between their bodies.

"Now, look," Matthew said, no nonsense in his tone. "I think I can just about get Rosamund to keep her mouth shut, if you come back with us now and have nothing more to do with this man, at least not until you are out of Robert's and Cora's charge." He glanced up towards Rosamund and Tom, who remained in an awkward silence as they stared across the table at Mr Margadale.

Rose twisted to look over Matthew's shoulder as he turned her again. "But you know he's—he's—he's terribly unhappy and it's not his fault at all. His wife is absolutely horrid—"

Matthew turned her again, his expression unchanged. "Married men who wish to seduce young women always have horrid wives. I suggest you meet Mrs Margadale before you come to any final conclusions."

Rose pouted up at him. "You're wrong. He's in love with me. He wants to marry me just as soon as he can get a divorce."

"And when will that be?"

Rose dropped her gaze. "Well, you see, it's terribly difficult..."

"Yes, I thought it might be. Now, are you going to accept my conditions, or do I throw you to Lady Rosamund?" Matthew turned Rose again, keeping their steps quick in time with the music, but his movements had a merely utilitarian air.

Rose frowned up at him. "Why are you helping me?"

Matthew gave her a gentle, self-deprecating smirk. "I'm on the side of the downtrodden."

She blinked, and he dropped the pretence of dancing with her. Keeping his grip on her wrist, he led her from the dance floor.

"Excuse me," he said, moving through a gyrating couple.

Back at the table, Rosamund sat stiffly, both of her hands gripping her handbag. Addressing her, Mr Margadale gestured at the still-standing Tom with a glass of champagne. "He's not a very talkative one, is he?"

Rosamund eyed Tom, who was glaring at Mr Margadale. Her lips pulled up in a smirk. "I rather think you wouldn't much like what he has to say."

Tom's mouth softened slightly, but his gaze remained unchanged. Mr Margadale squirmed.

They all looked up when Matthew and Rose appeared beside the table.

"Rose is feeling rather tired, so we're leaving," Matthew announced, and started towards the exit. Rosamund and Tom immediately moved to follow.

Mr Margadale sat forward, reaching out. "But won't you at least stay for a—"

But they were gone, disappearing through the beaded doorway a moment later.

* * *

"This is all so terribly  _unfair!_ " Rose hissed, glaring at Matthew as he escorted her up the steps to Painswick House.

"Nevertheless, these are the terms," Matthew replied calmly.

Rosamund paused on the steps and turned to look back at them. "I don't feel right not telling Susan about this."

Rose blanched. "Mummy wouldn't understand."

"Nor do I," Rosamund snapped. "What were you  _thinking?_  A respectable, well-born young woman, going out with a married man?"

"Rose knows that it all depends on her behaviour for the rest of her stay," Matthew said, lifting his hand to calm Rosamund, then turning his gaze on Rose. "If I hear of one false step, I shall personally telephone Lady Flintshire."

Rose huffed in annoyance, but finally nodded.

Rosamund's mouth flattened. "Very well. But I don't approve."

She continued up the steps and a curtain immediately fell into place on one side of the door. A moment later, Mead pulled the door open and the three of them went inside.

Hearing the sounds in the foyer, Robert, Cora, and Sybil emerged from the drawing room, and Cora gave a soft cry of relief. Robert's eyes were narrowed as he took in Rose's appearance. Rose's bright red dress was carefully covered up with her long coat and a high-necked scarf, but her face and hair remained as they had been in the club, and she looked rather garish in the bright lights and elegant surroundings of the foyer.

"You're all right!" Cora exclaimed, smiling at the girl as she reached her. Rose gave her a shaky smile in return.

"What happened?" Robert demanded.

Mead offered to take Matthew's hat but Matthew waved him off, so the butler quietly carried away Rosamund's coat and handbag.

"Rose went dancing with a friend and quite forgot the time," Matthew replied, eyeing Rose and then glancing at Rosamund, whose mouth was set in a thin line. "It won't happen again."

"It most certainly will not!" Robert barked. "Your parents entrusted you to our care and you gave us a terrible fright! How could I have faced your father if something had happened to you?"

Rose's eyes widened and her mouth trembled.

"Papa..." Sybil pleaded gently.

Matthew put a light hand on Rose's shoulder. "She's back safely now. I suggest we all retire. It's late."

"Where's Tom?" Robert asked.

"We dropped him at his flat on the way back," Matthew answered. "Do you have more you'd like to discuss? We could come see you tomorrow to finish up."

Robert waved his hand dismissively, stepping closer to Matthew as the women moved away, Rose clinging to her coat despite Mead's repeated offer to take it. "No, that shouldn't be necessary. I have some other business to attend to tomorrow. Shall we plan to meet again in November, when I've had a chance to implement a few of your latest proposals and we can see how they're coming along?"

Matthew smiled. "That sounds fine."

Robert sighed as he watched the women ascend the stairs. "Thank you so much for bringing her back."

"I wouldn't let her go out unescorted again," Matthew said. "I know many young women are allowed to go around without chaperones nowadays, but I don't think she's quite ready for the responsibility yet."

"I should think not." Robert answered grimly, then stood back with a small smile. "Give my grandsons my love."

Matthew grinned and turned to go. "I will."

"And give my love to Mary, as well." Robert paused. "Will you spend some time at home now, or must you travel again immediately?"

"Oh, I plan to remain here for at least the next few weeks," Matthew said, putting on his hat as Mead opened the front door. "It will be a very welcome reprieve."

"I'm glad to hear it." Robert gave a brief nod. "Good night."

"Good night," Matthew replied with a smile, and he went out.

* * *

Matthew turned on to the darkened drive and slowly pulled the car into the carriage house, cutting the rumbling of the motor. Gathering up his briefcase, he stepped out and closed the door as quietly as he could, mindful of Anna and Bates, who were likely asleep just above. The yellow glow cast by the streetlight spread out on the driveway behind him and illuminated the stone steps from the garage up to the back door, enabling him to slip silently into the house.

He went through the scullery and into the kitchen, pausing beside the counter to lift the cover of the biscuit tin. Bending down to take a whiff, he smiled and snagged a biscuit, then replaced the cover, turning to continue on through the kitchen as he took a bite.

The pungent taste of a lump of baking soda made him wince and cover his mouth. Frowning, he swallowed the bite he'd taken, then dropped the remainder of the biscuit in the bin under the sink. They really did need to find a better cook.

There was a creak and a scrape, and Matthew turned. Bates stood at the foot of the narrow stairway that led to his and Anna's apartment.

"Good evening, Bates."

"Good evening, sir. I just wanted to ensure you weren't an intruder."

Matthew smiled. "Well, not an unwanted one, I hope."

At Bates's answering smile, Matthew turned.

"Actually, sir—" Bates put out a hand, stepping into the kitchen and letting the door swing closed quietly behind him. He lowered his voice. "If I might have a word?"

"Yes, of course." Matthew paused.

"Might we speak privately with you and Lady Mary tomorrow morning, before you go out?"

"Certainly." Matthew frowned. "Is everything all right?"

"Quite," Bates answered, his teeth flashing in the dimness of the kitchen. "But it's an urgent matter."

"I'll speak with Mary. Perhaps after breakfast, when the children are settled?"

"Very good, sir."

"Good night."

With a nod, Bates disappeared back up the stairs, and Matthew continued on through the kitchen. He bent to wipe his fingers on a cloth, then pushed through the door into the hall and walked to the study. Setting his briefcase on a high shelf, he pulled up the roll-top desk cover, turned on the lamp, and briefly thumbed through the post, finding only the doctor's bill and a new parish calendar. Nothing pressing. He closed the desk and turned off the light.

The usual stair creaked as he ascended, making him wince, but then he smiled when he reached the top and saw that his pyjamas were laid out in a neat pile on the small table outside the bathroom. Taking them inside, he quickly readied himself for bed.

When he slipped into the darkened bedroom a few minutes later, he crept carefully over to peek in the bassinet.

"Don't you  _dare_  rouse him!" Mary muttered sleepily. Matthew chuckled, turning away from the bassinet to press a quick kiss to her cheek before going round and settling into bed beside her. She pressed back against him with a contented sigh when he drew her close. "How was your day?"

"Good," he whispered. "Murray agreed to let us stay in town until the end of October."

"Oh, good."

"Yes. Tom and I will scout for properties. We want to settle on something definite by then." Matthew gave Mary a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry, we'll be sure to get your approval first."

There was a smile in her tone. "And Papa?"

"Robert was open to some things, although less keen on others."

"That's to be expected."

"Mmm. And I have much to tell you of young Lady Rose, who proved quite as troublesome as you suspected."

"In the morning," Mary murmured.

"In the morning," Matthew agreed, settling more comfortably against her and smiling as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

"Yes, they've gone. Nanny has taken George to the park to feed the ducks," Anna answered, smiling as she tidied up Mary's bedside table, removing the breakfast tray and Charlie's soiled burp cloths. "Mrs Harrow gave him a bag of breadcrumbs."

"Only the crumbs? What about the rest of the rolls?" Matthew asked, shooting Mary a look. She widened her eyes at him in warning and adjusted the cloth she'd draped over herself and Charlie as he lay cradled in her arm, nursing contentedly.

Anna suppressed a smirk. "It  _was_  a large bag, sir."

"Those are going to be very fat ducks," Matthew muttered, bending down to tug on his shoes.

Anna turned to leave with the breakfast tray, but there came a firm rapping on the bedroom door, and she paused. Bates pushed the door open and entered, taking in the scene before his eyes met Anna's. She gave him a slight nod and set the tray back down on the bedside table, so he leaned on his stick and closed the door behind him.

"Ah, Bates, there you are," Matthew said, straightening up as he finished tying his shoelaces. "Come in."

Bates stepped forward to stand beside Anna, and Mary looked up at them in surprise.

"My lady," Anna said, then glanced at Bates. "Might we have a moment?"

"Certainly," Mary answered, frowning with curiosity. "What's this?"

Bates and Anna looked at Matthew, who quickly stepped round the bed with an apologetic smile at them all.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Matthew said, "it slipped my mind."

"If now is not a good time—" Bates began, but Mary silenced him with a toss of her head, shooting Matthew a look before giving Bates an encouraging smile.

"It's perfectly fine. What is it?" she asked, her eyes moving between him and Anna.

"We need to discuss possible changes in the staffing arrangements, my lady," Bates said.

Mary sighed and glanced at Matthew. "I know. Mrs Harrow will need to be replaced soon."

"No, my lady, it's not that—well," Anna gestured nervously, "—yes, we agree with that plan, of course, but..." Anna straightened and clasped Bates's hand before returning her gaze to Mary. "...we're expecting, my lady."

A wide, delighted smile suddenly lit up Mary's face, and Matthew let out a surprised laugh.

"Oh! Is it true?" Mary asked, her eyes moving to where Anna had laid her palm against her belly. Anna was smiling now as she squeezed Bates's hand and met his warm gaze with her own.

"How wonderful!" Matthew exclaimed, grinning.

"Now," Mary said, her tone returning to business even as she continued smiling. "How long before I'll need to hire a new maid?"

"Late March, most likely," Anna answered.

"So, late February, to give you time to train her," Mary said. Anna nodded.

"We thought..." Bates paused, glancing down at Anna. "Would you allow us to share only my salary?"

Anna continued in a rush. "If we might be permitted to stay," she said, "we would be content to each work part of the time and share the raising of our child."

Bates looked at Matthew. "You've been very generous to us and we're grateful, but you needn't keep both of us on full salaries to run this household smoothly."

Matthew raised his eyebrows and turned to Mary.

"Particularly if we hire an under-maid," she agreed. "But it's an unusual arrangement."

Anna and Bates nodded.

"Let us consider it," Matthew said, looking back at them. "We'll give you our decision in a day or two."

"Thank you, sir," Bates replied.

"Congratulations." Matthew stepped forward with a smile, holding out his hand, and Bates released Anna's, quickly switching his stick to his left hand and shaking Matthew's with his right. "We're very happy for you both."

Grinning, Bates moved the stick back to his right hand and turned to go. Anna slipped past Matthew, a wide grin on her own face, and gathered up the breakfast tray and cloths. Her eyes met Mary's, and the two women shared a smile before Anna followed her husband out of the bedroom.

"Well!" Matthew said, turning to Mary. "This is going to be interesting."

She chuckled and arched an eyebrow before reaching down to pull back the covering cloth and stroke the wisps of brown hair on Charlie's scalp as he nursed. "Quite."

* * *

"Yes, I'll consider it," Mary said. "Have a good morning with Tom."

Matthew gave her a teasingly wide-eyed look of desperate relief. "Thank you!"

"I won't ask if you plan to come home for lunch, then," she replied with a smirk, allowing him to kiss her cheek before he put on his hat.

"Good, because I don't want to give you my honest answer." His eyes twinkling, he opened the front door and went out.

Isobel appeared at the top of the stairs. "Was that Matthew?"

"Yes," Mary answered. "Do you want me to call him back?"

"No," Isobel replied, waving her hand as she descended. "It's only that I'm thinking I ought to head back to Downton tomorrow." She reached the bottom of the stairs. "You and Charlie seem to be doing well and I'm sure I'm just imposing now."

Mary gave her mother-in-law a warm look. "You're always welcome, Isobel, you know that."

Isobel smiled, but demurred, starting towards the dining room with her stationery and letters.

"Actually, I thought I might ask you something," Mary said.

Isobel paused. "Yes?"

Mary took a step closer, lowering her voice as she glanced towards the closed kitchen door at the end of the hallway. "Do you think Mrs Bryant might be open to Ethel seeing her little Charlie after all?"

Isobel blinked and look away a moment. "You know, I think she might." Isobel eyed Mary shrewdly. "What are you thinking of?"

Mary's eyes darted towards the closed door again. "Hiring Ethel."

Isobel brightened. "I think it an  _excellent_  idea," she pronounced. "Shall I deliver your offer to Ethel tomorrow?"

"Let me call on Mrs Bryant first," Mary said, then smirked. "Inviting her to visit with her grandson might be good practice for adjusting to the social mores of the middle class." Mary finished this last with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes.

Isobel chuckled. "Very well."

Mary smiled and slipped past, heading for the study as Isobel disappeared into the dining room. Closing the study door firmly, Mary crossed to her desk and lifted the telephone mouthpiece.

"Belgravia, 4423," she said, and waited as the operator connected the lines.

After two rings, Mead picked up. "Lady Rosamund Painswick's residence, her butler speaking. How may I be of service?"

"It's Lady Mary for Lady Rosamund," Mary replied.

"One moment, my lady." There was soft  _thunk_  and a shuffling, and a second later, Rosamund spoke.

"Mary, dear, good morning! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Good morning, Aunt Rosamund. Who's with you?"

"No one. Robert's out at his club or some such and Cora has taken Edward to Harrods," Rosamund replied. "Sybil is buried in the library, as usual, and Rose is keeping to her room."

Mary did not ask why. "Excellent. I'd like to take lunch with you and Rose, at a minimum. Would tomorrow suit?"

"I think they're heading back to Downton tomorrow," Rosamund said, a slight note of wry humour in her voice. "Why not join us today? I'll arrange for a proper luncheon."

"Will Mama be there?"

"I expect so."

Mary thought a moment. "I'll need your assistance."

Rosamund chuckled. "Matthew told you of last night's adventure, did he?"

"Yes." Mary grimaced. "It sounded dreadful."

"It  _was_ ," Rosamund answered fervently. "What are you thinking of?"

"Have you had Shrimpie and Susan to dinner yet?"

"Ahhh... _clever_. No, I haven't even sent the invitation. I hadn't thought there was such a rush."

"Oh, there isn't," Mary replied. "I would think it wise to wait until after Sybil receives her marks and we know whether all the effort is even necessary."

"I agree. And you'd like my help in... _convincing_  dear young Rose that assisting us is in her best interests, without your parents being any the wiser?"

"Precisely."

Rosamund laughed. "Luncheon is served at half-past. I'll tell Sybil."

"Thank you, Aunt Rosamund."

"No, thank  _you!_  I haven't had this much fun in  _years_."

With a soft chuckle, Mary set down the receiver and felt a welcome glimmer of her old self. What to wear? She pressed a finger to her lips, then smiled. One of the new outfits would do for luncheon at Painswick House. Matthew had given her the dresses a few months earlier, in thanks for coordinating their move to London, but she hadn't been able to wear them for more than a week or two before the growing baby had demanded a different wardrobe. With the effects of childbearing still visible on her body, the straight, stylishly-loose cut of the fabric would drape nicely round her recovering form. She was pleased with how quickly she was returning to her usual proportions, something that Isobel attributed to the nursing.

With that thought in mind, Mary went in search of Anna and Nanny. George seemed to have weaned himself by now, but Charlie would need to nurse before Mary went into town.

* * *

**November 1920**

"We're not to be disturbed."

"Yes, Lord Flintshire."

The sounds of telephones and typewriters cut off abruptly when the secretary pulled the heavy door closed, and Sybil swallowed as she looked across the desk at Shrimpie. His grey beard gave him a certain dignified air, but there were new lines under his eyes. She hadn't seen him since before the war and he seemed to have aged significantly. He was giving her a friendly smile now, but a sharp, curious look lit his eyes.

"How nice of you to drop by, my dear," he said. "Is everything quite all right?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, and set her handbag down beside her foot. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Thank you for waiting."

"Of course."

"So what brings you here today? I assume it isn't a social call." His glance at their surroundings made her give a soft laugh.

"No, not quite." She sat up straighter. "I know you're a busy man, so I'll get right to it."

He chuckled. "I wouldn't expect anything less of a granddaughter of Aunt Violet."

"I'm engaged to marry Tom Branson, Matthew's business partner."

"Congratulations." Shrimpie gave her a polite smile. "How can I help?"

"Our situation is rather complicated," Sybil said.

Shrimpie raised his eyebrows. "Complicated how?"

"I don't know if Mama and Papa told you, but I've applied to medical school."

"I had heard that, yes. I wish you all the best, my dear."

"Thank you. I've just received my marks and they're very good, but I cannot be accepted into the programme if I am a married woman."

Shrimpie frowned. "It's very unfortunate, but I do not see how I can make a difference. An English medical school is hardly under the jurisdiction of the Foreign Office."

"No, it's not that." Sybil bit her lip. "Tom and I still plan to marry, because the dean has said that if we keep it quiet, I would be permitted to study. We need your help to ensure the marriage does not become public knowledge."

"A secret marriage?" Shrimpie frowned, then narrowed his eyes. "Do your parents know of this?"

"Yes, we made our announcement to the whole family in April."

Shrimpie's frown deepened. "Robert hasn't mentioned any of this to me."

"Mama and Papa wouldn't have spoken of my engagement, because we've asked them to keep it quiet."

Shrimpie sat back in his chair. "I still fail to see how any of this involves me."

"If you could host us at Duneagle for Christmas," Sybil said plainly, "then no one would bat an eyelid if I were to disappear for a few weeks."

He gave her an incredulous look. "You want me to convince Susan to allow you and your fiancé to pretend to spend a  _few weeks_  at our estate while you and he actually do what? Run away together?"

"Not exactly." Sybil smiled nervously. "Whether you extend an invitation to Tom is up to you. But by law, I must spend three weeks in Scotland before we can be married without the banns."

Shrimpie's face relaxed and he opened his mouth in a slow 'ah' of understanding. Then he blinked and sat forward. "Why not just apply to your local ordinary for a special dispensation? They have the authority to waive the banns. At least, they do if Mr Branson is Catholic, which I assume he is, from what Robert has said of him."

Sybil considered this a moment, then said, "Well, we can't be married at Downton; that would hardly lend itself to keeping such a secret. But the more important issue is that we don't wish to draw attention, in Downton or London or anywhere else. That would defeat the point."

Shrimpie sat back and eyed her for a long moment. "I'll consider it," he finally said. "But only if your father does not object."

Sybil nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he answered. "I'm not the one who will be difficult to convince."

* * *

As the cab trundled through the city, Sybil stared out the window, watching the passers-by, and wondered how Tom was faring with the dean. He'd assured her that he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to provide for and support her, but what was Dr Henley telling him now? Was Tom having second thoughts?

Her grip on her handbag slipped, so she lifted her hands, one at a time, to wipe her damp palms on her skirt. Her stomach churned.

What did Tom see in her? He had risked his livelihood to tell her he loved her, and how had she repaid him? She'd kept him at arm's length for years, and now she was demanding that he live with her in secret for years more, without children or even a particularly attentive wife. If she succeeded at achieving an entrance, she would be gone much of the time, her hours long and her energy devoted to others. Sybil wanted to become a physician, but would the sacrifices be worth it? Could she really make a difference that would matter to anyone? And even if she did, would it matter compared to how she'd treated him? Would he grow to resent her after years of her leaving him behind for her work?

Her thoughts spun round, so she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

"Here we are, miss," the cab driver said. The car bumped and rolled to a stop, and Sybil opened her eyes.

Tom stood outside on the pavement in his best brown suit, a sombre expression on his face. All at once, he broke into a grin, and his eyes twinkled at her as he stepped forward. She exhaled a quiet laugh.

"Thank you," she answered, handing a few shillings to the cab driver as Tom opened the cab door.

"Come," he said and gave her a hand out of the cab. Once he closed the door, she fell eagerly into step beside him, alternating between hurrying to keep up with him and searching his face. But he said nothing further until they had gone two blocks and turned down a narrow side street.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"There's a good pub just there," he answered, pointing at a cheerful black sign with gold lettering and a dog and a loaf of bread embossed on it. At her look of surprise, he shrugged. "I did a bit of scouting," he explained. "If I ever need to see you home from the School, I wanted to find a safe place for us to meet."

"And a place to keep warm while you wait."

"Just so."

They went up to the Bark and Bread, the bell over the door jangling as they went in. The place was warm and dark, and smelled of ale and smoke and chips. Sybil followed Tom to a booth, where they took their seats.

"What did she say?" Sybil asked.

Tom's sombre expression returned. "She asked a great many questions, some of which I would have preferred not to answer. But I thought if I held anything back, she'd do the same."

Sybil nodded. "Did she give you the third degree?"

"She wasn't antagonistic," Tom answered. "But she painted quite a stark picture."

Sybil felt a small stab. "Was it worse than you expected?"

"Not in the particulars, no," he answered, "but I was surprised to learn that the later years would likely be more difficult than the earlier ones."

"Once I begin working in the wards, the hours will be much longer," she agreed with a nod, then winced. "Did she press you to answer  _very_  personal questions?"

"Some." Tom shrugged. "But I appreciated her bluntness and honesty."

"She shouldn't have invaded your privacy."

"I don't begrudge her that. She just wants to be  _quite_  sure."

Sybil swallowed, drawing in a deep breath. "And...is she?"

"Yes." He smiled. "She told me to tell you this: 'Mr Branson will not prove an impediment to your application.'"

"Oh, Tom!" Sybil broke into a wide grin and steepled her hands, pressing her fingers to her lips.

Tom opened his mouth to continue, but just then the waiter came by. He had thick, twisted burn scars on one side of his face. It was the kind of injury Sybil had seen many times on wounded soldiers during the war. She quickly focused on his eyes.

"What'll ye have?" the young man asked, glancing between them.

"A pint of Guinness, and bangers and mash, with peas," Sybil said. The waiter's eyebrows rose, but he merely nodded and turned to Tom, who appeared to be repressing a grin as he looked across at Sybil.

"The same," he answered. "But without the peas."

"We've carrots," the waiter said.

Tom looked at him. "That'll be fine. And two glasses of water."

With a nod, the waiter strode off.

Tom regarded Sybil with a speculative, amused expression.

"What?" she asked, jutting out her chin. "I've always wanted to try it, ever since you let me have that sip of yours when we were out with Mary and Matthew  _ages_  ago."

Tom's lips twitched. "You didn't look like you much enjoyed it."

Sybil shifted, sitting up more primly. "I was a bit shocked at the time, but I didn't...mind it."

"I didn't hear you asking for more."

"I couldn't, not in front of Mary."

Tom chuckled. "Well, fair warning: I won't let you drink the whole pint, not until I'm sure you can hold your liquor. Lady Rosamund would never forgive me if I brought you home three sheets to the wind."

Sybil gave him an incensed look, but at his firm expression, she sighed and sat back. "Very well. But I'll not let you baby me forever."

"Hard drinking isn't going to prove anything about your competence as an adult."

She arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from an Irishman."

Something flashed briefly in his eyes, but then he put on a tight smile and sat forward, interlacing his fingers, his elbows resting on the table. "Not all of us are drunkards," he said, "and given our situation, can you truly blame those of us who are?"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Tom sat back. "Forgiven."

The waiter appeared with their glasses of water and then left.

After taking a sip, Sybil fixed Tom in a direct look. "I don't want to merely go from being controlled by my father to being controlled by my husband," she said, watching as Tom's brows pulled down. "If I've had a hard day and I want to nip off for a drink and some time to myself, I want the freedom to do that."

"You can have a glass of wine at home just as well," he answered, still frowning.

"But could I really relax with everyone around?" Sybil asked. "Mary and Matthew, all the children, a houseful of servants..." Sybil swallowed. "...and  _you_."

Tom's frown faded, to be replaced by a different look altogether, one that she couldn't quite name. There was a smile in it, but there was something else as well. "Yes,  _me_. Alcohol isn't the only way to relax, you know."

She blinked, frowning in curiosity. He raised his eyebrows and his smile widened.

She felt her cheeks grow hot and she looked away, quickly taking another sip of water. When her eyes flickered back up to his, something deep within her stirred in response to his gaze, which remained amused and confident. Her skin tingled and she was filled with both eager curiosity and trepidation. She  _wanted_  this. She understood the basic mechanics of it. She'd seen men naked many times before, as she'd cared for them in the hospital wards. For all her worldliness, however, she was still uninitiated, and unsure exactly what would be required of her. Hadn't Mary implied that Sybil's being with Tom in that way would be somewhat demanding, impeding her sleep, not encouraging it?

She was relieved by the brief reprieve of the waiter arriving with their food and drinks, but after eating in silence for a minute, she leaned forward, lowering her voice.

"So it's...relaxing?" she asked. Tom's head shot up, and then he dropped his eyes slightly and swallowed. He smiled as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. She sat back, frowning. "I hadn't realised you were so  _experienced_."

His smile fell away. "Not much more than you are, I expect."

She narrowed her eyes. "Then how do you know?"

"It was just something my grandfather once said in passing," Tom answered, reddening slightly.

"But...a friend...once told me that a husband would wake me at night, to..." she drifted off with a pointed shrug.

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Well, I can't honestly say I'm  _opposed_  to the idea of...waking you," he answered, resting his fork on his plate. "Look, I know you're going to be tired and you won't have much left for me, or anyone, at the end of the day. But I can promise you this: I will  _never_  force myself on you." The corners of his mouth tugged up. "I don't know who your 'friend' is, but never you mind them. We'll work it out together."

She glanced down with a nod and he took another bite, but after a moment, she chuckled, prompting him to look up at her.

She grinned. "I'm  _so_  looking forward to not feeling the least bit awkward with you about any of this any longer."

A smile broke across his features and he laid down his knife, reaching across the table to clasp her hand. His grip was warm and reassuring, and she relaxed.

"So am I!" he agreed, laughing softly.

She smiled at him, squeezing his hand, and they reluctantly drew apart to return to their meal.

"Shall I tell Aunt Rosamund to set her wheels in motion?"

He laughed. "Yes, please do." Sobering, he lifted a forkful of carrots. "How was your meeting with Lord Flintshire?"

"I think he'll help us, but he might telephone Papa first before he agrees to it."

Tom swallowed his food. "He won't try to stop us, surely?"

"No..." Sybil frowned, then sighed. "But I just wish he would give us his blessing."

Tom regarded her with a patient look. "He's been nothing but polite to me. It's more than I had expected." Sybil nodded, although her expression remained pained. Tom gave her an encouraging smile. "We'll be official soon enough, with or without his blessing."

Sybil pushed food round her plate for a long moment, and then she sighed and spoke in a low tone. "'Soon enough'? I don't think I can  _bear_  to wait until Boxing Day!"

He gave a small groan and closed his eyes, his soft laugh of agreement his only answer. A moment later, he looked up at her, and that expression she was coming to recognise had returned.

She cleared her throat and made a determined stab at a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "I purchased the supplies we discussed. Have you had much luck with yours?"

"I've found a place," he answered. "The chemist was very helpful. He said that if we want them, we should ask for 'a little something for the weekend', and everyone would know what we meant. Oh—and he mentioned that we won't be able to buy any in Ireland."

"Why not?" she asked.

"They're outlawed."

"Ah," she replied, and took a bite.

Tom chuckled. "Perhaps that's why we say, 'Oh you have five children! So you've been married five years, then?'"

She smiled and watched him eat for a moment, then asked, "Does it bother you, agreeing to this?"

He chewed and frowned, then shook his head. "No. It's what is right for us, right now."

She reached out to touch his hand again. "Thank you," she said softly. "For all of it. Truly. Thank you."

"You're worth it all and far more," he answered, his smile warm, and she looked forward to when their meal would end, and she could step outside, find a quiet spot, and kiss him.

* * *

**Several days later**

"Mary, Sybil, and Rose want to go skiing," Matthew said with a shake of his head, as he drew more folders out of the filing cabinet and laid them in the box that stood on the desk beside him. "I'm afraid I don't much see the appeal of flinging myself down a mountainside."

"There's always cross-country," Tom offered, and Matthew tilted his head and shrugged. Tom finished rolling and tying a bundle of maps together, carefully tucking it into a box near his feet.

"Well, I don't suppose it will much matter if the weather doesn't cooperate." Matthew sighed. "According to Rose, there was almost no snowfall last winter."

"You'll be bringing your Brownie, right?"

"Of course," Matthew answered. "How could I resist photographing such a beautiful landscape? But Mary would be bored to tears, following me around while I tried to frame the perfect shot."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something to do," Tom said. "At least you'll have company. That's more than I can say."

Matthew grunted and shook his head. "Not very pleasant company, if Mary is right."

" _Lord_  Flintshire seems a decent enough fellow. He's been very kind in supporting our plans."

"True."

Tom hefted his box of maps and went down the stairs to put it in the boot of the Runabout. When he returned to his flat, he found Matthew unscrewing the legs of the drafting table, and went over to help.

"It will only be three weeks," Matthew said with a grin. "Then you'll have all the company you want."

Tom chuckled. He made quick work of one leg and moved on to the final one. "I just hope she won't tire of me."

Matthew laughed. "She won't, not if you let  _her_  set the pace."

"Sometimes—" Tom grunted as he lifted the drafting table up on to its side, propping it against the wall, "—I feel as though  _wild stallions_  couldn't hold me back."

"I know exactly what you mean," Matthew said.

Exchanging a smile, they went back to packing up all the office supplies. After a few minutes, a rumbling pulled up outside and cut out. Tom went to the window.

"The lorry's here," he announced.

"Excellent."

"Mr Branson!" an older woman's voice called up the stairs.

"Yes, I'll see them in, Mrs Harrigan," Tom called back.

"Tracking mud all over my carpets..." The landlady's voice faded away as she went back into her rooms, and Tom and Matthew exchanged an amused, longsuffering glance before Tom hurried down the stairs to direct the moving men.

* * *

"You're making good progress," Mary observed, stepping into the new office. One of the movers checked himself, gawking as he went round her. Tom glanced up from his unpacking in surprise, then amusement. Even in these surroundings, she managed to look every inch an aristocrat, from her elegant hat down to her coat and her stylish boots.

"Hello, darling," Matthew said. "How was your shopping?"

Mary shrugged. "I've sent Anna home with a few things. Will you be done before tea?"

"Why do you ask?" Matthew smirked. "Do we have some pressing appointment?"

Mary pulled off her gloves, drifting round the room as she glanced at things. "As a matter of fact, we do."

Matthew gave her look. "I told you we'd need the whole day to arrange things. Possibly two."

Tom straightened. "That's all right, you go. I can see to getting the place in order."

"It's for all three of us," Mary announced. "I've just run into Mr Napier and Mr Blake and invited them to tea. Here."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "You 'just ran into' them?"

"Well, Frankie told me where I might find them and I stopped by..." Mary smiled, giving an expressive shrug.

Matthew glanced at Tom, who just pressed his lips together and stayed out of the fray.

"We're going to have to find the teapot," Matthew muttered, frowning at the stacks of unlabelled boxes, as another pair of moving men came in carrying the disassembled drafting table.

Mary smiled at Tom. "How was your meeting with Murray this morning?"

"I've given my notice," he answered. "He didn't look all that disappointed."

Matthew glanced at Tom. "It's Murray. He didn't look pleased, either." Matthew turned to Mary. "He's accepted our terms. Tom will leave after the first week of December, but I'll stay on through January, to finish the legal work I've promised the last few clients."

"What about new clients?"

"I've agreed not to solicit further legal work from any of them, but we can continue to offer our services to their firm's clientele as assessors and restructuring consultants."

"Did you negotiate a finder's fee?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Matthew answered. "If Murray refers any clients to us and we take them on, we'll pay him a flat rate."

"Good." She removed her hat and looked for a place to set it down, along with her gloves and handbag. "Why is it so cold in here?"

Tom gestured at a nearby cast-iron radiator. "They take time to warm up. The chill ought to be out of the air within a half-hour."

Mary nodded and left her coat on, then suddenly strode across the room towards where the moving men were trying to set up the drafting table. "No, no: the longer legs go on  _this_  end. Angle it so the lower end is facing the room. The lamp attaches there."

"Yes, m'lady," the older of the two moving men said, quickly shifting to obey.

As Mary continued to direct the movers, Matthew and Tom focused on unpacking their boxes and staying out of her way. When they were safely out of earshot, working in Matthew's office, Tom glanced back towards the lobby.

"Have you given any thought to my suggestion?" Tom asked.

Matthew looked up, then followed Tom's glance towards where Mary strode about.

"She found the teapot," Tom observed.

"I do agree with you," Matthew said slowly. "But it's more complicated than that. She manages so much already. I don't want to tax her too much."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Could you really stop her?"

Matthew half-chuckled, half-sighed.

"You might as well make it official."

"I'll think about it," Matthew agreed, then went back to moving the folders into the filing cabinet as he smiled to himself.


	39. Chapter 39

_39_

**Duneagle Castle, 6 December 1920**

Mary and Matthew sat in a tense silence, both looking out the car windows nearest them, although neither was paying close attention to the surrounding landscape. Matthew frowned; Mary had assumed a bored expression, although the sharp light in her eyes belied her disinterest.

The car bumped over the frozen ground, jostling the baby basket that rested on the seat between them, and Charlie roused with a cry of protest, opening his eyes. Both parents immediately softened their postures as they turned to him.

"Shh, my darling," Mary said, reaching into the basket to lift him out. Mewling, Charlie jerked his arms and legs, dislodging his blanket. Mary loosened the folds of cloth while cradling his head.

"Do you want—?" Matthew gestured towards the bag at their feet.

"Yes, please," Mary answered, her tone clipped as Charlie set to wailing. With a sigh, Matthew bent down and rummaged in the bag until he drew out a small glass bottle, half-filled with milk. Holding it between his knees, he fished a rubber teat out of the bag and deftly fitted it into a hollow cap, then unscrewed the cap on the bottle and quickly screwed the teat on in its place. Making sure the seal was firm, he handed the bottle across to Mary. It took her a few moments to get Charlie's attention, and he whimpered a bit when he realised it was the rubber teat, but eventually he quieted and began to gulp the milk. Both parents relaxed slightly.

"I'm sorry, my lady," the chauffeur said, glancing back at them in the rear-view mirror. "The road is a bit rough in this patch."

"It's quite all right," Mary replied. She glanced at Matthew, who met her gaze briefly before dropping his eyes to Charlie. She looked back out the window with a sigh.

Dusk was falling as the caravan of motorcars pulled on to the long driveway that led up to Duneagle. The nearby firs and hedges remained a dark green, but further afield, bare trees stood on the frost-covered grounds, starkly outlined against a sunset of brilliant reds and blues.

"Even in winter, Scotland is breathtaking," Matthew murmured.

"It  _is_ beautiful," Mary agreed, handing the bottle back to Matthew to stow in the bag. "But it's rather disconcerting to find it growing dark so early in the afternoon." Charlie gave a cry of protest and squirmed when the car rounded a bend and the long, thin rays of sunlight hit his eyes, so she shifted him into the shadow of her arms, and returned to watching the castle rise up before them.

The tyres crunched on the gravel drive as the chauffeur slowed the car and pulled to a stop. Mary tugged Charlie's woollen cap down over his ears and made sure his blanket was wrapped securely round him as Matthew gathered up the bag of baby things and Mary's handbag before climbing out. He went to the car behind to see to Nanny Hollis and George, as Bates looked after Anna and their things. Accepting the chauffeur's hand, Mary stepped out, holding a faintly-squirming Charlie against her chest. Sybil, emerging from the car ahead, gave Mary a quick smile before turning to join Rosamund as they went up the steps into the castle.

Rose stood at the top of the steps, her blonde hair neatly pinned back and her cheeks pink with the snap of cold in the air. Her breath rose up in white wisps as she grinned down at them all. "Welcome!" she exclaimed, rushing down a step to link her arm with Sybil's. "I'm so glad you've come!"

Mary followed them up into the house, where Shrimpie and Susan stood just inside the doorway, Shrimpie clad in kilt and sporran.

"Come in quickly, come in," Susan commanded, hurrying everyone inside. After giving Mary's handbag to Anna, Matthew entered with Nanny and George before him. The butler pushed the door closed with a solid bang, shutting out the cold air, and began collecting everyone's coats and hats.

"Rosamund," Shrimpie said with a smile, stepping forward to exchange a cheek kiss with her. "It's been too long."

"We're so glad we could entice you up this far north, particularly at this time of year," Susan agreed.

"I'm delighted to be here," Rosamund replied, smiling at them both. "It will be quite nice to spend the Christmas season with family, instead of just hosting parties alone in London."

"You're always welcome at Downton, you know," Mary observed with a smirk.

"Oh, I know, but I  _do_  rather enjoy my parties," Rosamund said, her eyes glittering in warning and amusement.

Rose stepped up to stand beside her father and fixed Matthew with a cheery look. "Hello!" she said in a purposely-bright tone. "Daddy, this is Matthew. Defender of the downtrodden. Including me." She watched him closely as she smiled at him.

Matthew chuckled, his gaze quickly sliding from her to Shrimpie. "I don't know why I've earned that," he replied, reaching out to shake the older man's hand.

"I'm pleased to finally meet you," Shrimpie answered. "I'm sorry I couldn't get away for your wedding."

"It was perfectly understandable, given the circumstances," Matthew replied.

"Robert has told me so much about you."

"Good things, I hope," Matthew said.

"Always." Shrimpie's eyes twinkled.

Relaxing, Rose turned away. "Oh, there are so many things I want to tell you!" she said to Sybil and Mary, nearly bouncing in her excitement.

"I'm sure they're all  _quite worn out_  from their journey," Susan said sharply. "We must let them get settled in their rooms." She looked at Mary. "Let me show you to the nursery."

"Thank you," Mary answered, smiling back in genuine relief as she followed Lady Flintshire towards the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder, Mary saw Nanny carrying George, who was staring at everything with wide eyes. As they passed through the armoury hall, Mary glanced up at the familiar displays of old hunting rifles, spears, maces, and axes, memoirs of a more violent age. The weapons seemed incongruous with the otherwise richly-decorated surroundings.

"It's all just as I remember it," Rosamund mused, looking up as she followed along with Anna close behind. "It's good to see everything so well cared for."

"I'm afraid it's been many years since the nursery has seen any use, however," Susan said to Mary. "I've had it cleaned and aired out and stocked with a few items."

"That's very good of you. Thank you," Mary said, glancing back at Nanny. "But I think we've brought everything we'll need."

"Well," Susan replied, with a slight bite in her tone, "since you'll be here for three weeks, it can't hurt to be prepared."

"That's very wise," Mary agreed. She exchanged a pointed glance with Rosamund, then turned back to smile at Susan.

* * *

"I'm organizing a Christmas Market!" Rose said to Sybil, where they still stood in the entranceway. "Daddy said he hadn't been to one since he was a boy and I think he'll love it. I've spoken to Mrs MacKenzie, the cook, and everyone agrees we should do it."

"That will be a great deal of work, won't it?" Sybil asked.

"Well, yes, but we've got  _weeks_  to make the decorations and organize the food," Rose answered, her face alight. "We can start a new Christmas tradition, and invite everyone!"

"Don't you already host everyone for Christmas dinner?"

"Yes," Rose said, linking her arm with Sybil's. "But this will be a  _day-long_  party, with sleigh rides and skating and a crafts market, and all the village invited, not just the tenants..."

Shrimpie shook his head fondly as he watched the two young women walk away. "How was your trip?" he asked, turning to Matthew.

"Good, much as expected. Charlie did well, but George fussed a bit on the train. Thank you, once again, for having us."

"We're happy to do it," Shrimpie said. "I must confess, the Christmas season here is rather dreary these days, with James and Margaret and their children down at Newtonmore. Annabel and William wanted to visit them this year." Shrimpie shrugged. "I can hardly blame them. It's a bit warmer down in Wales."

"If you don't mind my asking, how did you come by an estate in the Highlands, if the Newtonmore title is Welsh?" Matthew asked, striding beside Shrimpie as they went into the library.

"My mother was the Marchioness of Flintshire," Shrimpie replied. "The title is one of the few that can pass through the female line."

"Ah." Matthew nodded.

Shrimpie went over to the side-table and lifted a bottle. "Whisky? There's a good distillery outside the village, near the seaside."

Matthew smiled. "I'll try it. Thank you."

Shrimpie poured them both a dram and the two men settled into the high-backed armchairs beside the open fire.

"Is Mr Branson settled?" Shrimpie asked quietly.

Matthew nodded. "He's taken a room at an inn at Gretna Green."

"I'm sorry I couldn't invite him up with you all, but I'm afraid Susan wouldn't have been amenable to it and I'd rather not raise her interest as to why I'd ask. She sees having a houseful of family relations to attend to already trying enough."

"That's quite all right," Matthew said. "With Sybil here and plenty of witnesses to attest to it, there's no real need. You've been far more generous than we had any right to expect."

"Nonsense." Shrimpie shook his head. "I can't tell you how glad we are. We weren't able to host everyone in September. I hadn't expected we could get away this year, and I might have to go back down to London for a few days, but an extended Christmas holiday with family is just the thing." He smiled, lifting his tumbler to his lips, and Matthew did the same.

"How goes it in the Foreign Office now?" Matthew asked, when he finished savouring a taste of the whisky.

Shrimpie groaned and looked heavenward a moment. "I assume you've been reading the papers," he said, and Matthew nodded. "Eastern Europe is in shambles. The refugee problem is only worsening, and with the Brest-Litovsk Treaty now abrogated, everyone is jostling for position. Each month, it seems some ethnic group or other is declaring themselves to be a new state or trying to join a neighbouring country. Dozens of borders are in dispute, and although Russia is still in turmoil, they're rattling their sabres in every direction. And the Versailles Treaty is no panacea, either. Germany is scrambling to pay its debts and going mad in the process. Chamberlain is predicting terrible inflation. The Weimar Republic's flailings are setting the whole Continent on edge, not to mention worsening our own problems at home. And don't even get me started on the Middle East, and the situations developing in India and Nigeria." He sighed, then sagged a bit. "It's a constant string of headaches, basically."

"The colonies' troops fought alongside our own," Matthew said, frowning in thought as he watched the flames dance and flicker through the dark amber liquid in his tumbler. "They want to be treated with equal respect."

Shrimpie nodded. "That's about the shape of it." He sighed. "The business of running an empire is far less romantic than it sounds."

Matthew chuckled, but the frown quickly returned to his face.

"Enough of my complaints." Shrimpie gestured with his drink. "How is business coming along for you? Robert mentioned something about you expanding?"

"Yes," Matthew answered, looking up. "Surprisingly enough, given the climate, we're still getting more work than we can meet, so we're setting up a new firm."

"Growing beyond what your current employer wants to handle, I take it?"

"Something like that." Matthew crossed his legs. "We'd like to be more nimble in our payment structures. Mary's had rather a good idea about how to accommodate smaller clients, and if we want to take them on, we'll need to be willing to shoulder more of the risk."

"Where are you with everything?"

"Still in the early stages. We've got the office set up and we've met a client or two there, but I'm still completing my obligations with Murray, Frobisher, and Curran. I haven't been able to dedicate my full energies to the new venture yet." Matthew smiled. "I expect, once the New Year comes round, we'll be entering the brave new world of hiring staff."

"Ah," Shrimpie nodded. "And managing them."

"Exactly. The first priority is to find a suitable office manager, to free us up to do the main work." Matthew gave a self-deprecating smirk. "I'm afraid neither Tom nor I have very developed administrative skills."

"Well..." Shrimpie smiled and settled comfortably back in his armchair. "...good luck with that."

* * *

"We could take a day trip to Edinburgh and do some Christmas shopping," Rosamund suggested. "Not tomorrow, of course, but perhaps a bit later in the week?"

"Oh, what a good idea!" Rose put in with a smile, glancing round at the group of women who had settled in the drawing room after dinner. "There are so many supplies we'll need to buy for the Market and a trip to Edinburgh will help immensely."

Susan flattened her lips and glared at Rose before addressing the other women. "It will mean rising before dawn to catch the train, if you don't want to spend more time travelling than actually enjoying yourselves."

"We could always take a room—" Rose began.

"No," Susan snapped. "You are  _not_  spending the night in the city."

Rose's face creased into a shocked frown.

"I'm afraid I can't leave Charlie for an overnight trip," Mary said in a placating tone, her gaze moving between mother and daughter as she put on a polite smile.

"Why not?" Susan asked, focusing on Mary with a frown. "You've brought your nanny along."

Mary pursed her lips and looked down. "I've chosen to nurse him, as I did with George." Mary's lips pulled up in a smirk as she met Susan's disapproving gaze. "It does wonders for one's figure, you know."

Susan gave a short, closed-mouth laugh and her eyes drifted derisively to Rose. "Perhaps  _that's_  what I should have done." Then Susan put on a smile. "Annabel is expecting again."

"Oh, how many grandchildren do you and Shrimpie have now?" Rosamund asked.

"With this one, it will be five," Susan answered.

"You must love to have them visit," Sybil said with a smile.

Susan glanced away, smoothing her gown. "Well, at least they never stay for long." She looked at Mary. "Robert and Cora must be pleased to have so many grandchildren. Tell me, how is your sister Edith? I haven't seen her since before the war."

"Edith is well," Mary replied. "She just had her third child, Peter. I'm told he's a ginger."

"Oh." Susan frowned. "You've haven't seen him yet?"

"I'm afraid not," Mary said. "I haven't been back to Yorkshire since she gave birth."

"Great-Aunt Violet said Edith married a man twice her age," Rose said. "What's he like?"

"He's very kind, a good listener," Sybil answered. "The sort of person who will remember some small project you mentioned months ago and ask you how it's coming along." She smiled. "He makes you feel as though your opinion matters."

Mary shot Sybil an incredulous look, but Sybil shrugged it off.

"But isn't he terribly  _old?_ " Rose pressed.

"What's wrong with being old?" Rosamund asked Rose, the older woman's eyes glittering with humour.

"Oh...nothing," Rose answered quickly, giving Rosamund a nervous smile. "Only, for a husband, it seems quite..." Rosamund raised her eyebrows, waiting, and Rose stammered, "...boring?"

"Oh, do be quiet," Susan snapped. "You're only making a fool of yourself."

Rose looked down at her hands with wide eyes, her jaw working.

"I prefer 'experienced'," Rosamund said gently, and Rose lifted her head. "Just consider how much better it would be to be with a mature man, and not a mere, fumbling boy." She raised her eyebrows and Rose blinked, absorbing this, before looking back down as a flush crept up her neck.

"Well, there  _is_  a downside to marrying a much older man," Mary said.

"Mary!" Sybil hissed, leaning closer with a frown.

"What?" Mary asked, not lowering her voice or changing her posture in the least. "Anthony's health is declining. I should hate to think that Edith might become a young widow." Despite her words, Mary's tone did not sound particularly sympathetic.

"That would be tragic," Susan agreed. "But at least she would be free to marry again."

"Mummy!" Rose said, looking up sharply with a frown.

"I'm only speaking the truth," Susan replied. "There's no need to look at me like that."

Rose glared at her and looked away, then brightened as Matthew and Shrimpie entered the room.

"What's the uncomfortable truth in the room?" Matthew asked with a smile, taking his seat in the empty place beside Sybil. "Nothing too shocking, I hope."

"It's probably best not to ask," Shrimpie said dryly, wandering over to stand beside the mantelpiece.

"We were just discussing Edith and Anthony," Mary said. "How his health is declining."

Matthew nodded, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "It's very unfortunate," he agreed. "He's a good man."

Sybil gave Mary a triumphant look; Mary only smirked.

"They sent their regrets," Susan said with a nod. "As did Robert and Cora. Although of course it's perfectly understandable: it is Advent, after all. There are traditions to keep and obligations to uphold. We understand that, don't we?" Susan directed this last to Shrimpie, who only frowned and shifted his stance.

"I like to think we can start new traditions," Rose put in, a renewed smile on her face. "Don't you agree, Daddy?"

"I do...within reason," he said, his gaze shifting uncomfortably between her and Susan.

When Mary and Rosamund began discussing their favourite Downton Christmas traditions, Sybil leaned towards Matthew and spoke in a low tone. "Convenient, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Why Mama and Papa cannot attend," she replied, a distinctly bitter note in her tone.

Matthew's eyes flickered round the room before returning to her in warning, and he lowered his voice. "You could hardly expect anything different, surely."

He glanced away from Sybil and saw that Rose, who sat on his other side, was watching their conversation with a slight frown of curiosity on her face. Matthew smiled.

"I noticed that you have a gramophone in the ballroom," he said, relaxing and letting his smile widen as his gaze flickered across to the sharp-eyed Susan, who was clearly taking no interest in the Downton reminisces. "Do you enjoy music?"

"It's Rose's," Susan replied. "Ghastly thing."

"I do," Rose answered, ignoring her mother. "Ooh! Shall we have some dancing?" Rose made as if to bounce up from the sofa, but her mother shot her a quelling look.

"Don't be ridiculous," Susan said. "It's only their first evening here after a long and tiring journey. No one wants to dance."

Rose looked crestfallen, but Matthew only leaned towards her with a smile and murmured, "Another night, perhaps?"

Rose nodded and tried to smile, but it seemed more of a flinch as she avoided her mother's glare.

"Tell me more of this Christmas Market you're planning," Matthew said.

Rose relaxed slightly and glanced back at Shrimpie. "It was Daddy's idea, really. He'd been to one in Frankfurt when he was a boy, and he thought it might be a nice way to liven up the dark afternoons here." Rose grinned. "He was the one who suggested that we make a skating rink on the loch's edge and have sleigh rides between the castle and the rink! I think we can set up a tent there and serve hot mulled wine to the skaters." Shrimpie smiled at her and she straightened, confident and smiling as she turned back to Matthew.

"That sounds wonderful," Matthew agreed.

"Sleigh rides will be impractical if we haven't any snow," Susan observed.

"We shall organize wagon rides, then, shan't we?" Rose replied, too sweetly.

Susan shifted in her chair, displaying her displeasure as the conversation continued on unabated.

* * *

When the party broke up, Sybil, Rose, and Rosamund went upstairs first, with Mary and Matthew following behind. He moved to rest his hand on the small of Mary's back, but at her cold glance, he dropped it again with a frown.

"How can you support her in this?" Susan hissed behind them.

Matthew and Mary both stiffened, but neither turned to look back at Susan; their eyes only met in embarrassed discomfort as they mounted the stairs. The conversation between Shrimpie and Susan was obviously meant to be private, but the sounds echoed clearly across the hall.

There was only stony silence from Shrimpie, and then Susan hissed, "We both know why we shouldn't be doing this!"

"Why won't you just let us enjoy a happy time while we can?" Shrimpie snapped.

Susan heaved a sigh, and then only one set of footsteps—hers—clicked across the marble floor of the hall.

Mary and Matthew shared a frowning glance as they continued up the stairs.

* * *

"I'm only saying that you should have consulted me first." Matthew shrugged out of his dressing gown and tossed it over the back of a nearby armchair before climbing into bed.

Mary sighed, walking to the bed as she finished massaging cream into her hands. She pulled back the covers and climbed in beside him. "If I waited to speak with you about every little conversation that I want to begin, we'd never make any progress."

He glared at her. "I'm not asking you to get my permission for  _every conversation_ ," he replied. "But you cannot offer our services to new clients before we're ready to provide them!"

She shimmied down under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. "I didn't offer your services. I only suggested that Mr Hardwicke speak to you."

"Yes, by implying that I could see him immediately, when of course you know Tom and I aren't going to be able to see anyone for  _weeks_."

"I implied nothing of the sort!"

Matthew huffed as he laid down and tugged the covers up to his waist. "Then why did Hardwicke show up demanding that we see him?"

"He's desperate, perhaps?"

Matthew growled under his breath. " _That's_  an understatement."

Mary turned on to her side, facing him. "Why are you objecting, Matthew? I would think you'd be happy that I'm sending business your way."

"I  _am_ ," he sighed, and thumped his hands on the covers in frustration. He looked at her. "Thank you."

Mary smiled.

"But all of this—this—" He cut himself off, looking away.

"This what?"

He frowned, his jaw working. "I saw you with Charles Blake, too."

She raised her eyebrows and glared at Matthew, waiting.

"You were..." He gestured helplessly and jutted his chin in accusation.

"I was...?"

He grit his teeth. "Flirting."

She pushed herself up on one elbow. "I was just being friendly, darling, you know that. It's merely how my kind of people do business."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Just what are you accusing me of?"

His nostrils flared, but he didn't answer.

Mary laid back down with an angry huff. "Neither you nor Tom have many connections in the upper echelons of Society, where most of your clients keep company. If you want to attract new business in this economy, you'll need to make concessions. You need to stop thinking of me as your possession and start thinking of me as an asset."

Matthew sighed, then rolled towards her. She didn't look at him.

"I don't think of you as my possession," he said quietly. "But...I can't help disliking the way other men often look at you."

She arched an eyebrow. "They have always looked at me that way," she replied.  _And they always will, if I have anything to say about it._

"True," he conceded, "but it bothers me when you  _invite_  them to."

She held his gaze a moment. "I am who I am, darling. I can turn a man's head if I wish, and I will use that skill, and all others at my disposal, to support you in your ambitions."

His brows drew down and he appeared to be struggling to swallow a reply. "No," he finally answered. "The ends do not justify the means."

Giving him a small smile, Mary reached out and ran her fingers up into his hair. "I will always be in your bed, darling, and none other."

"I know that," he said, and his hand found her hip. He sighed. "I trust you."

"Then let me do what I can to help you."

He lifted his eyes to hers. "Just be careful, Mary, please. You know better than most what a 'harmless' bit of flirting can lead to."

She dropped her gaze and frowned down at the bedclothes between them, swallowing.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I promised myself I'd never resurrect him. God, I'm so sorry."

"No," she whispered. "You're right."

He moved his hand up from her hip to stroke her hair, and shifted closer until he was resting his forehead against hers. "You  _are_  very skilled in society," he murmured. "Thank you for bringing more business our way. You're right: every bit helps."

Mary smirked, lifting her eyes to his. "Especially if you want to continue growing our family."

Matthew chuckled. "Someday," he said. "Not yet."

"No," she agreed, as he pulled her close for a kiss. When they parted, she smiled in apology. "You can kiss me, darling, but that's it. The day's travelling has tired me out."

Disappointment was clear in his features, but he nodded.

"Keep me warm?" she asked, and he smiled.

"Always."

And they settled together, eventually relaxing into sleep.

* * *

"Ah, Matthew, thank you for joining me," Shrimpie said, looking up from his desk in the library the next morning. He had several ledgers spread out before him, and as his eyes returned to them, he frowned.

"Of course," Matthew replied. He wandered closer and pushed his hands into his pockets. "McCree said you wanted to speak with me?"

"Only if you haven't any other plans this morning."

"No." Matthew gestured with one hand. "Mary wanted to spend our first day here just resting."

Shrimpie nodded. "I was hoping to discuss business with you, but if you'd prefer to rest as well..."

Matthew smiled and shrugged. "No, I don't mind. Shall I?" He pointed at a nearby armchair and Shrimpie nodded, so Matthew made himself comfortable. "What's this about?"

"Whenever we're at our club, Robert talks of the modernisations that you and Mr Branson have been helping him with. Robert is quite taken with your ideas, you know."

"Really?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "That's news to me."

Shrimpie chuckled. "Well, change isn't easy for anyone."

Matthew nodded, smiling.

"Least of all me." Shrimpie's amusement faded and he glanced round the room with a sad air. "There isn't any hope left for this place," he began, "but there might yet be hope for Newtonmore. It's a much smaller estate."

"Is it so bad here?" Matthew asked, sitting forward and interlacing his fingers. "Most landowners we've worked with have resources that they just haven't considered, or sources of waste that could be pruned down."

"That's not the case here, I'm afraid," Shrimpie replied with a shake of his head. "This estate was never self-sufficient even at the height of its glory, and I'm afraid I've just sat on my hands as the money drained away." He gestured towards the door. "You might have noticed that we're not running with a full staff."

Matthew nodded. "How much longer do you think you can hold out?"

"Another two or three years, perhaps?" Shrimpie said. "But enough of that. I won't be Laird of Duneagle for much longer. James has been overseeing Newtonmore since before the war, and he's been prodding me to consider making changes there. He's got ideas and the gumption to see them through, but I must confess, I'm much more a diplomat than a farmer."

"So what do you propose?"

"Come down to Newtonmore in the early spring," Shrimpie answered. "You can bring your family along, if you wish."

Matthew smiled. "Thank you, that's very kind. I won't presume to challenge your assessment of this place, but would you like to discuss it?"

"I don't suppose it could hurt," Shrimpie said, then grinned. "And it will give us an excuse to escape this houseful of women."

Matthew chuckled and nodded.

"There's a good pub in the village," Shrimpie continued, settling back in his chair. "A comfortable spot to warm your feet on a dark afternoon."

"It sounds perfect." Matthew grinned, then shot Shrimpie a sidelong glance. "Would you like to meet Mr Branson before you hire him? If you invited him here, we could take him round with us."

Shrimpie's eyes narrowed. "You trust him, I take it?"

Matthew lifted his chin. "He'll not take advantage of the situation, if that's what you mean."

"Robert did not object to my hosting you all, and the reason for it," Shrimpie said, "but I have no desire to betray his trust."

"Nor I," Matthew agreed. "Since Lady Flintshire is not eager to expand the party, perhaps Tom would only join us a day or two before the Christmas Market?"

Shrimpie smiled grimly and nodded. "I think that might do."

* * *

**Two weeks later**

"Oh, another rock. Thank you, darling." Mary smiled down as George toddled away, bundled in his fur-lined cap and thick coat, searching for more pebbles to bring back to his parents. "He's lost his mitten again. Matthew, would you—?"

Matthew nodded and bent down to pick up the discarded item. "George, come to Daddy, please..."

"So do you think you'll continue offering legal services, too?"

Matthew finished tugging on one mitten just as George shook off the other and proceeded to step on it in pursuit of a frozen acorn. With a sigh, Matthew picked up the dropped mitten and tried to clean it off while George proffered his acorn and waved it happily in Matthew's face.

"Wock!"

"No, Georgie boy, that's an acorn." Matthew chuckled, finished tugging on the second mitten, and straightened up. "Yes, it seems wise to offer all that we can. I don't expect the assessment business will be booming indefinitely."

"You'll need to hire a law clerk, then."

"No, a legal secretary will do," he corrected. "Clerks generally only serve judges." He smiled at Mary. "You're a very skilled legal secretary, you know."

Mary smiled, then turned back towards the castle with a slight frown. "Charlie will be rousing soon. I should go in to nurse him."

Nodding, Matthew scooped up George, accepted an acorn cap and an ice-encrusted twig from him, then surreptitiously tossed them away behind him as he joined Mary. They walked back across the bridge towards the nearest side-entrance into the vast castle.

"So would the legal secretary manage the office?" Mary asked.

"For an office as small as ours, she might," Matthew answered. "But if we add another employee or two to help with the assessments, we'll need a proper office manager."

Mary nodded, lost in thought as they crossed over the threshold into the private entrance hall. The butler came over to accept their winter things.

"I hope you had a pleasant walk, my lady, sir," he said, politely distant.

"We did," Matthew replied, as Mary helped him extract George from his coat.

"Lunch will be served in forty-five minutes."

"Thank you, McCree," Mary replied. "We'll be up in the nursery if anyone asks."

"Very good, my lady."

When they reached the nursery, they found Rose holding a wailing Charlie and Sybil looking on, unconcerned, as Nanny Hollis disposed of a soiled nappy.

"He just woke up," Rose said, jiggling him gently as she paced back and forth. "Shhh, little dear, Mummy's come."

Mary took her customary seat in the rocking chair and accepted the nursing blanket and a pillow from Nanny Hollis, then reached up to receive Charlie when Rose brought him over. With practiced ease, Mary soon had Charlie nursing contentedly under the blanket.

"Come, George, let's read a book before your lunch," Matthew said, looking away from watching Mary with a contented smile. Sybil sat down on the child-sized bed across from the bookshelf, relaxing back against the wall as Rose went over to join Matthew and George on the floor.

"Which one today?" Rose asked, starting to riffle through the slim volumes on the shelf. " _Katie Crackernuts!_  Oh, I haven't read this one in  _ages!_ "

"Very well," Matthew said with a chuckle. "Be my guest."

"It's about  _dancing!_ " Rose said in a stage-whisper to George, who had lost interest in the bookshelf and was walking towards the toybox, arms outstretched. "I know you love dancing!"

"Especially to  _Pack Up Your Troubles_ ," Sybil observed with a giggle. "He jigs about in the most adorable little circles."

"Good, that's settled, then," Rose declared. "We'll have dancing after dinner tonight, and I don't care what anyone says." She nodded as she settled in to read, opening the first page of the book. "' _Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen..._ '"

* * *

"Oh, Daddy, please stick up for me!" Rose exclaimed, trembling with anger as she stood in her mother's bedroom, looking between her parents with a pleading expression.

"Don't you  _dare_  take her side in this!" Susan snapped at Shrimpie. "You've done enough damage already."

"But Mummy, it's the fashion now!"

"Then it is a mad fashion." Susan turned on Shrimpie with a snarl. "How could you let her dress like that? What kind of father  _are_  you?!" She flung her arm out at Rose. "I  _told_  you she looks like a slut, and after this evening's performance, now we can all see that she dances like one, too!"

Rose burst into tears and fled from the room, as the sound of her mother's shrill voice continued behind her. Thankfully, there were no servants about in the darkened hallway, and Rose hurried to the place where she had always hidden from her mother since childhood: a small, curtained alcove off the gallery. It was a barely a nook, probably not meant to be used for anything, the curtain only hung to cover up a regrettably awkward joint in the architecture, but it was her refuge.

Rose slipped into the space; it felt much more cramped than she remembered, but she could still fit if she pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. From her vantage point, hidden in the dark corner, she could look down over the ballroom, see the many glass windows, and find some peace in the quiet space, alone. She'd snuck to this spot once or twice with Annabel when they were very young, to watch the Ghillies' Ball after they were supposed to be in bed, but their parents had held balls so infrequently that Rose was far more accustomed to the quiet, echoing darkness when she hid here.

The lights were low, but they still glowed on the far side of the ballroom, and there was a shuffling noise, of paper being crinkled and drawn across a surface. Rose frowned, craning her head to see the source of the sound.

Matthew stood before the gramophone, his back to her, still dressed in his tails, and he seemed to be putting a record on the turntable. A moment later, the familiar, cheerful strains of  _Any Old Night_  began to play, and Rose smiled as she watched Matthew sway slightly in time with the music. She closed her eyes and let her head rest back against the wall; it was a curious quirk of the architecture, but if she put her head in  _just_  the right spot, the music echoed up as clearly as if she were standing right beside the gramophone.

The singer on the record began the expected words, but a moment later, a pleasant alto voice joined it in a harmony, and Rose's eyes flew open in surprise.

— _Why should I care?_  
_Round the world let them race;_  
 _My own opinion is this!_

And then a light tenor joined the woman's alto voice over the sound of the recording:

 _Any old night is a wonderful night_  
_If you're there with a wonderful girl_  
 _Whether you stroll in romantic moonlight_  
 _Or in a ballroom you whirl_  
 _I've seen the glad nights, the mad nights_  
 _The dry nights, the wet_  
 _But there are some nights I never forget_  
 _Any old night is a wonderful night_  
 _If you're there with a wonderful girl_

There was a warmth and a mutual ease in the duet, but then the new singers' voices devolved into soft giggles and a light moan, and Rose flushed. Feeling a Peeping Tom but unable to resist, she peered round the stone railing to see Mary and Matthew dancing alone in the ballroom below. They were parting as though they had just kissed, and Rose watched them with wide eyes.

They were so beautiful together. They moved as one, relaxed but perfectly in time. Each of their faces, when they turned and she could see their expressions, was transformed. She could point to nothing specific that had changed, but it seemed as though whatever mien they normally wore in company was dropped when they thought themselves alone. The change was far more pronounced in Mary than in Matthew, however, and Rose's mouth dropped open a little to see it. Mary's smile was free and genuine, even girlish, without a trace of her usual superciliousness or polite formality. Rose had long wished she were half as elegant as Mary always seemed to be, but in this moment, Rose wished for something entirely different: to be able to smile as freely as Mary did now, content and joyful and at peace with the man she loved. Rose sniffed and smiled as she wiped the old tears from her cheeks.

The song drew to a close and the dancers parted, Matthew going to stop the turntable and return the record to its sleeve. Mary wandered behind more slowly, following him to the table, and her hand drifted to his back when she reached him.

"Did Charlie go down easily?" Matthew asked.

"I assume so," Mary replied. "When I left, Nanny had things well in hand."

Matthew linked his fingers with hers and they walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. She leaned back against him as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, and they stood quietly together, looking out.

"I've been thinking," Matthew said. "Would you like to be our office manager?"

Mary smiled and turned her head towards him. "I thought you would never ask."

"I didn't want to assume it," he replied. "I already ask so much of you. You manage our family, the house, the staff..."

"Anna and Bates practically manage themselves," Mary said, returning her gaze to the window. "I have no concerns about our household with them in charge."

"And Ethel's coming along quite nicely," Matthew agreed.

"Call her 'Mrs Parks', darling," Mary chided gently. "Well, it helps that she has a reason to succeed. That was an inspired idea you had, hiring her."

"You needn't sound so surprised. I  _do_  occasionally have good ideas."

"Mmm." Mary's cheeks pulled up in a smile and she swayed slightly, sliding against him, and he moved with her. When they stilled again, Mary said, "To own the truth, I'm relieved you asked. I haven't Mrs Bryant's sweet nature. I don't think I could bear to fill my days with merely organizing new parish fundraising schemes."

"Why not? It's what your mother does, if perhaps on a larger scale."

"I don't know if you've noticed," Mary answered dryly, "but I'm not my mother."

"No." Matthew laughed softly.

"Do you think Tom will approve?"

There was a smile in Matthew's tone. "I should hope so. It was his idea, after all."

Mary chuckled. "What time does he arrive tomorrow?"

"Ten o'clock. I've arranged things with Shrimpie's agent: he'll meet us for lunch at the pub in the village."

"So Sybil and I are just to trail along, taking photographs with your Brownie whilst you and Tom talk shop with the agent?  _That_  sounds enthralling."

Matthew chuckled. "It won't take long, I promise. We'll spend perhaps an hour after lunch with him. He's got some Newtonmore papers somewhere in his office, Shrimpie says. Once we've got those in hand, we'll have the rest of the afternoon free to wander the glen."

"I know I ought to disapprove of Sybil and Tom spending so much time together directly before their wedding, but I suppose there's nothing for it."

Rose gasped, then covered her mouth.

"No, there isn't," Matthew said. "And we shouldn't look for a reason to keep them apart. They haven't seen each other for nearly three weeks."

"All the more cause to be careful, if they are anything like we were in the week before  _our_  wedding."

Matthew chuckled and gave a low hum as he lowered his head to kiss the side of her neck. Rose drew back, swallowing. She wasn't unfamiliar with such attentions from a man, and she had certainly seen her share of couples hiding in dark recesses at clubs in London, but it didn't seem right to continue watching Mary and Matthew in this moment.

There was a sigh behind her and she jumped, twisting in surprise.

It was her father, holding aside the curtain. His gaze shifted from the scene below to look down at where Rose sat at his feet. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beckoned for her to be silent and come out of the nook, so she unfolded herself and stepped quietly out into the darkened hallway. He began to walk towards her bedroom, and she fell into step beside him. They strode in silence past her mother's bedroom.

When they had stopped outside Rose's bedroom door, she spoke quietly. "Were you and Mummy ever like that?"

Her father's face was lined with sorrow and regret, and her heart clenched as he looked down with a shake of his head.

"Do you think..." Rose frowned, trying to form the right words. Matthew had seemed so bland when she'd first met him; friendly, but otherwise rather dull. Then, at the Blue Dragon, he'd been such a stick-in-the-mud, as disapproving and controlling as her mother, although he'd turned out to be surprisingly more merciful. But as she'd gotten to know him better these past two weeks, she'd found that she rather liked his gentle sense of humour and his unassuming ways. When she thought of it now, she realised that he reminded her of her father, but with one notable difference: with Mary, Matthew became a lover, displaying all the affection, confidence, and intimacy of a man happily in love. It was no wonder that Rose hadn't felt a spark at their first meeting. Matthew wasn't like most men of her acquaintance. He reserved this part of himself for Mary alone.

And that, Rose realised, was exactly as it should be.

"Do I think what?" her father asked, recalling her from her thoughts.

"I know it didn't work out for you and Mummy," Rose said slowly, "but do you think I might be loved like that some day?"

Tears rose in her father's eyes, and he gently took her hand. "I truly hope so, my dearest one."

Rose set her jaw. "I don't care how eligible some chap may be. I'm not going to be bullied."

Her father chuckled, but there was pride in his eyes. "Fighting talk."

"I  _mean_  it. I am only going to marry if I am totally, absolutely in love."

Her father closed his eyes a moment before he looked down at her again with a smile. "Of course."

"When I find him, will you promise to be on my side? Promise you won't try to force me into a 'suitable' marriage like you were forced?"

Her father frowned. "You're not even officially out. You needn't worry yet."

"But will you promise?"

He fixed her in a serious look. "In other words, you're asking for a blank check."

She nodded, lifting her chin. "Yes. That's just what I want."

He sighed. "Oh, my dearest one." He squeezed her hand. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it. But on the subject of marriage, I have no right to give advice, let alone orders."

Rose tried to smile, but it wouldn't come. Finally, she just hugged him.

"Good night, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you, too."

* * *

Smiling, Matthew met Tom in the entranceway late the next morning, as McCree carried off Tom's bags, coat, and hat.

"Mary and Sybil will be down soon," Matthew said. "I don't mean to rush you, but we're to meet the agent in a half-hour."

"That's all right," Tom replied. "I could do with a bit of action."

"Were you driven mad with the boredom?" Matthew asked.

"No, not at all. Just with the anticipation." Tom grinned. "But I made good use of the time."

"Lord Flintshire is in the library," Matthew explained, heading off in that direction, and Tom joined him. "What did you do with all the time?"

"Writing, mostly."

"Ah. Wise."

"Yes. It was surprisingly refreshing, actually," Tom said. "On some days, I just wandered and thought. On others, I slept in past breakfast." Matthew chuckled as Tom went on. "I can't remember when I last took the time to just... _stop_."

"I know what you mean," Matthew said. "This is the longest holiday I've taken since before the war." He smiled as they approached the library. "Spending time with Mary and the boys, discussing business and politics with Lord Flintshire, reading, going for a walk or two by myself; I feel as though I've had time for a proper rest. I find that I'm rather looking forward to starting up the firm."

"It's been a good preparation for the future," Tom agreed, and the two men shared a smile as they walked into the library.

* * *

**24 December 1920**

Another wagon appeared over the rise, filled with laughing families, everyone's faces bright from the cold, and Sybil smiled as she watched their bobbing heads. A pair of girls from the village arrived at the sweets tent, giggling and chattering, and Sybil gave them small bags to fill with roast chestnuts, gingerbread cookies, and candied, toasted almonds, then pointed them towards the waffle table in the tent next to hers. Looking back up, she smiled. Dusk was falling, but the Christmas Market did not seem to be winding down. The colourful, glowing fairy lights that festooned every stall kept the gaiety alive, and the whole village and most of the servants remained out and about, enjoying the Christmas ornaments, food, and crafts.

A bagpiper wandered past in partial regalia, a warm muff, and plaid woollen trousers. He finished droning his last notes and lifted his head from the pipe with a friendly smile.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked, selecting a mug. When he nodded, she filled the mug with hot mulled wine and then, glancing up first for his approval, poured in a splash of brandy.

"Aye, lass, that's just the thing," he said, when she offered him the mug. He accepted it from her with a flash of his teeth, drained it, and grinned as he handed it back. He was a tall, young, well-built fellow, a ginger, with sharp blue eyes and a dusting of stubble on his chin. She gave him a friendly grin.

The piper's eyes shifted to her left and she followed his gaze, seeing just then that Tom had appeared at her elbow. With a polite smile and a nod to them both, the piper moved on.

"I think we're running low on roast chestnuts," Sybil said, glancing over the table as she tidied things up.

"Well, then," Tom answered, "let's go fetch some more."

She looked at him and saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. The fire-pit where the chestnuts were being roasted was on the other side of the castle. With a quick glance round, she spotted a young woman sitting just inside the back of the waffle tent, knitting.

"Hattie, would you watch my table for a few minutes?"

"Of course, my lady." The young woman finished a stitch, then rolled up her needles and wool and left them in a bag by her feet.

"Thank you," Sybil said with a smile, before hurrying off beside Tom.

"Shall we go inside or go round?" Tom asked.

"Inside."

He grinned and they made for the bridge that led into the castle's main side-entrance. It was relatively quiet indoors; everyone was enjoying the revelries outdoors, as Lady Flintshire had insisted the party remain outside as much as possible.

Tom made a sudden turn and Sybil frowned.

"But the door out to the fire-pit is down that way—" she began, but at his look, she cut herself off and hurried after him with a grin. He chose a door seemingly at random and looked in, then quickly stepped inside the room and pulled her in after him. The moment the door closed behind them, she pressed him back against it and kissed him, her soft moan mingling with his.

"Three days..." she murmured, her eyes still closed. "It feels an eternity."

Tom chuckled against her lips and kissed her once more before straightening up.

"I'm sorry we won't be doing it properly, with you in a white dress and me in a morning suit, standing in a church," he said.

"We  _will_  be doing it properly, in the sight of God and man," Sybil replied. "The clothes and the building don't matter as much as our words and actions."

He smiled, and Sybil raised her hands to cup his cheeks, drawing him down for another kiss.

There was a quiet  _click_  across the room; Sybil gasped and pulled back.

It was Rose, crossing towards the windows, having just come in through the other door.

They were in the library, Sybil realised belatedly. There were  _two_  doors into this room.

"You really ought to be more careful," Rose said with a nod towards the people milling about on the lawn just outside. There was a twinkle in her eyes as she drew the curtains. "Someone is bound to notice."

Sybil blinked.

Rose finished drawing the second window's curtains, then turned to look at Sybil and Tom. "Is it true? You'll be marrying on Monday?"

Sybil glanced at Tom, swallowed, and looked back at Rose with a slight frown. "Yes. How did you know?"

Rose shrugged and smiled. "You needn't worry, your secret isn't out. I confess to spying on Mary and Matthew once—unintentionally." Rose drew closer, frowning in curiosity. "So is this what you meant when you said that you wouldn't permit the medical school to dictate  _all_  the terms?"

"Yes," Sybil said. "But we must keep the marriage a secret."

"Does Cousin Robert approve?" Rose's eyes shifted to Tom's.

"Tacitly," he replied.

"Does Daddy know?"

"Yes," Sybil answered. "The reason we're staying at Duneagle is because I needed to demonstrate three weeks' residency in Scotland before we could marry here without the banns. Mary and Matthew and Aunt Rosamund came along to make my disappearance less noteworthy."

Rose's eyes widened in understanding and then she grinned. "I'd wondered why Daddy was so willing to support my case at Cousin Rosamund's dinner, after all he'd said about being chained to his desk because of his work..." Rose laughed. "I'm so glad you stayed here! I only wish I could attend your wedding!"

Tom and Sybil smiled, but Sybil shook her head. "We don't want anyone wondering why you'd leave to return home with us."

"No, of course, I know that," Rose said. "Well, we will have dancing this evening to celebrate!" Rose looked at Tom. "No one will bat an eyelid if you ask her to dance then, will they?"

"No one at all." He grinned.

"Then that's settled," Rose announced, clasping her hands in happiness before gesturing back the way she had come. "But I must insist that you rejoin the Market, or someone will notice you're missing. You're lucky I was the one who spotted you hurrying off alone together. You wouldn't want Mummy to find you."

"No," Sybil agreed, and with a backwards glance of apology to Tom, who squeezed her fingers with a regretful smile, the three of them returned to the festivities.

* * *

**27 December 1920**

"Well, my lady, I'm not quite sure—" Bates began, eyeing the large, unexpected package that the Duneagle footman carried. The poor young man's face was turning red from the effort.

"Oh, please, just find a spot to strap it on, won't you?" Rose begged.

"What's this?" Matthew asked, striding down the gravel path towards the cars.

Rose's face lit up and she hurried to meet him, keeping her voice low as she neared Matthew. "It's a wedding gift for Tom and Sybil."

Matthew's eyes widened and then his brows drew down in a confused frown.

"Never mind how I know," she whispered hurriedly. "But I want to wish them well. Keep it for them, would you? It's too large for them to conveniently bring along to Ireland."

Recovering quickly, he nodded and glanced past her. "Just put it on the back, Bates." Matthew turned, looking in the cars to ensure everyone was settled. "Are we ready to go?"

"We will be as soon as I find a place for this," Bates replied.

"Good-bye," Rose said, as the chauffeur opened the door for Matthew to climb in beside Mary. "Thank you for defending the downtrodden yet again."

Matthew chuckled. "I've noticed that you like to do the same. You presided over the Christmas Market with grace and generosity."

"Of course," she replied. "Otherwise, all this wealth seems a waste, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," he answered with a warm smile. "Many wishes to you and your family for a happy new year."

She nodded and grinned, bending to wave to Mary and baby Charlie inside the car. Then, stepping back as Matthew climbed inside, she watched and waved as the three cars drove off.

* * *

"This is the inn," Tom said, gesturing towards the front door. "They'll be expecting us. I've arranged for a luncheon afterwards."

"We'll need a room for the children," Mary said to Matthew, as Nanny Hollis came up beside her carrying George. "George and Charlie will need to go down for a nap during lunch."

"I've arranged for that, too," Tom replied. "I've taken two rooms on the first floor."

Mary looked at him in some surprise, raising her eyebrows in approval.

"What?" He smirked at her. "I  _did_  have nearly  _three weeks_  to plan this all out."

Pursing her lips in a smile, she strode past him and led the way inside.

"Oh good, you've arrived," she said, when she stepped into the entranceway, and Tom frowned. His mouth dropped open when he realised that Lady Edith and Sir Anthony were standing in the foyer. "Did you bring it?"

"Of course I did," Edith answered. "I wasn't going to  _forget_  it."

Tom blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the inn and a flash of movement behind Edith caught his eye.

" _Kieran?_ " Tom asked, staring as his older brother stepped out, holding on to his hat. Kieran had grown a moustache since the last time Tom had seen him. It made him look older.

"Hey, Tom."

"But—how did you—?"

"I wrote to him," Matthew answered cheerfully, stepping inside and gesturing for everyone else to come in out of the cold. The innkeeper hurried over to close the door, and soon everyone was plunged into the dim yellow lamplight.

"But how did you—?"

"When we stopped to visit your mother in Dublin last year on our way up to Ulster, she mentioned that Kieran lives in Liverpool, so I asked for his address," Matthew answered. "You'll see everyone else in your family next week, so we thought you'd like to see him today."

Tom blinked. Kieran approached and grasped his hand, clapping him in a quick hug. "Congratulations. I meant to say that. Where's the lucky lady?"

Tom looked over and gestured for Sybil. She came quickly to his side, smiling at Kieran.

"So you're the toff, eh?"

"Kieran..." Tom began, but his brother only gave Sybil a cheeky grin.

"Pleased to meet you, my lady," he said, giving the address an ironic quirk of his lips. "I hope you know you're too good for him."

"It's quite the reverse, I assure you," she replied, holding out her hand. Kieran looked a bit taken aback, but he quickly accepted her hand and shook it.

"We haven't much time to prepare," Mary said, stepping up and giving Kieran a quick, disinterested glance. She looked at Sybil. "You'll need to come with us."

"Why?" Sybil asked. "I'm ready to go to the blacksmith's now."

"No, you're not," Edith said, and a smile grew on her face as she glanced back towards Anthony. He stood beside a table, and on it sat a long, white box. Sybil gasped and pressed her fingers to her lips.

Smiling, Anthony lifted the top off the long box, tugging it as he slipped his good hand deftly round the cover, and then he stood back to reveal a wedding gown. Sybil drifted closer in disbelief and Tom followed, fighting tears as he watched her glowing face.

The creamy silk glinted in the lamplight, and the cut, although lovely and sure to be flattering on her, was simple. The gown was not encrusted with pearls, but rather lightly accented with lace. Sybil's eyes filled with tears.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. "Who did this?"

"Mary and Aunt Rosamund," Edith replied, glancing past Sybil and meeting the two women's eyes. "They  _are_  the fashion fiends, after all."

"And a good thing," Mary said. "Otherwise you'd be getting married in your day clothes."

"I'm going to be terribly under-dressed," Tom murmured.

"You certainly will not," Lady Rosamund said, coming forward with Mr Bates at her elbow. "You can't imagine I'd allow my niece to marry a man who looked as though he'd just walked in off the street, could you?"

Tom stared as Mr Bates brandished a morning suit and, realising his mouth hung open, Tom closed it.

"You'll find there are certain advantages to having me do your laundry,  _sir_ ," Mr Bates said, his eyes—and Anna's beside him—glittering with amusement.

Tom smirked at him. At Tom's own request, Mr Bates usually didn't address him as "sir", except when they were in public together.

"Very well," Tom said, and grinned as he met Sybil's bright, smiling gaze. "Let's get married."

* * *

**Downton Abbey, 14 January 1921**

**(Two weeks later)**

Elsie Hughes patted her hair as she glanced in the small mirror that hung on her office wall. With a brisk movement, she opened the office door and strode out. Mr Bates was approaching, carrying a pair of men's shoes, and Mrs Hughes broke into a smile. His face crinkled up into a matching one.

"Good evening, Mrs Hughes. You're looking very smart."

Mrs Hughes gave a slight, dismissive toss of her head, although her smile remained. "I can't tell you how lovely it is to have you and Anna back at Downton, even if it's only for one evening."

"Wightstead is a very good situation," he answered, pausing outside the shoeshine room, "but I won't deny we've missed you all."

Mrs Hughes took half a step closer and lowered her voice. "I don't mean to pry, but I didn't want to say anything to Anna without being quite sure: is she expecting?"

The smile on Mr Bates's face grew even wider and he chuckled. "Yes."

Mrs Hughes straightened up. "Wonderful! Then I shall congratulate her at the first opportunity." Mr Bates nodded, still grinning. With a lighthearted step, she continued down the hall.

"Why can't Alfred do it?" Thomas asked in an annoyed tone, from where he stood just inside Mr Carson's office. "I've still got the silver to set out."

"Because Alfred isn't the _first footman_ ," Mr Carson replied. "He is attending to other duties."

Fuming, Thomas stepped out with barely a glance at Mrs Hughes. As his crisp footsteps echoed and faded, she stepped into the butler's pantry and pushed the door closed with a quiet click. Mr Carson looked up from the bottle of red wine that he was carefully decanting, and his face relaxed.

"He's been with the house for nearly ten years," Mrs Hughes observed, "and he hasn't been promoted past footman."

"I know that," Mr Carson answered, sighing heavily. He set down the bottle of wine and arched an eyebrow. "His record isn't entirely unspotted."

Mrs Hughes frowned. "But that was years ago. He's done nothing so objectionable since, and he  _does_  know the business of this house."

"But what do you propose we promote him to? Mr Molesley, surprisingly, has done a first-rate job as His Lordship's valet, and  _I'm_  not going anywhere."

Mrs Hughes looked to the side in a commiserating fashion. "There's always under-butler."

"It would be silly to have a house with two butlers and one footman, especially as His Lordship won't want to hire another footman, not with the new cost-saving measures he's been implementing."

"I don't have a solution," Mrs Hughes said crisply, turning towards the door. "But the alternatives are either to endure more of Thomas's discontent, or send him off with a good reference that makes it clear he wasn't sacked. Plenty of households are lowering their staffing levels these days."

Mr Carson frowned and sighed. "I'm not saying I much like his discontent, either, but I don't want to send him away. We need a third man, and he knows the business of this house, as you say."

"Then take it up with His Lordship."

Sitting forward to resume decanting the wine, Mr Carson nodded. "You may be right."

Mrs Hughes smiled and pulled open the door.

"That's a very nice smock," Mr Carson said, and Elsie blinked in surprise, her gaze shooting to his. She glanced down at herself, then relaxed and smiled.

"Thank you. I do hope you're not planning to attend in that." She nodded at his usual butler's costume.

"I'll change when I've finished my duties," he intoned. With a smirk, she strode out, leaving him behind to smile to himself.

* * *

When Charles Carson finished decanting the wine, he went up to the great hall to make sure all the preparations were complete. All the furniture had been moved out of the space, and chairs were set up for the musicians who would be arriving soon. Across the room, small tables and chairs were arrayed for those who wished to eat or break from the dancing. Several long tables stood along that wall, and the drinks were already laid out on one. The kitchen staff and hall boys would be up to set out all the food in a half-hour. Satisfied, Mr Carson went down the corridor and ascended the stairs to the family wing.

Most of the family members were in their rooms with their body servants, preparing for the evening, so Mr Carson strode down to the nursery and looked in, a smile tugging at his lips as he took in the scene.

"Hullo, Carson," Edward said, looking very smart in his black bowtie and dinner jacket. "No, Georgie! Not like that."

"It's all right, Master Edward," his governess corrected gently. "Master George can hold it like that if he wants to."

"Good evening, Mr Carson," Nanny Hollis said with a smile. She stood folding a pile of clean nappies on the changing table. "He's just gone down."

Mr Carson walked over to the crib and looked at the babies inside. Charlie's arms and legs shifted in contented little jerks as he stared up at the butler with bright eyes. Beside him, little Peter lay fast asleep.

"Hello, Master Charlie," Mr Carson murmured. "Are you being a good little chap?"

"Very good," Nanny answered. "He drank half a bottle of milk just now!"

Mr Carson grinned. "You keep that up, Master Charlie, and you'll grow big and strong."

"Just like me!" Edward agreed.

"Dwar!" George echoed.

Chuckling, Mr Carson nodded to the nanny and the governess as he went out to change.

* * *

At first, Edward and Sylvia danced awkwardly together in the middle of the floor at the Servants' Ball, both very focused on their feet. The adults who danced round them smiled down fondly as they swung past. But after the initial song, the children paired off with various adults and family members and were soon giggling and grinning. Harry danced once with his mother, Edith, and then very carefully asked Daisy, the smallest adult present, if she would do him the honour. He took the job rather more seriously than Edward and Sylvia, but even he was soon smiling as Daisy made him laugh.

Molesley and Violet were doing a cautious waltz when Isobel and Thomas went by, managing a slightly more energetic one. Matthew took his obligatory annual turns with Mrs Patmore and O'Brien, none of them looking particularly enthusiastic about the activity, while Mary and Carson smiled and made easy conversation as they danced. Robert and Mrs Hughes stepped in precise form, speaking of inconsequentialities as though they were discussing business, and they drifted past the small band of musicians in the corner of the room. Alfred, the newest footman, towered over Cora, who made friendly conversation and inquired about his family, while he answered in nervous monosyllables and did his utmost not to step on Her Ladyship's feet.

Eventually, family members paired off with one another and servants did the same, and most of the forced awkwardness faded, although a few brave souls continued crossing the divide and laughing together. Anthony sat out most of the dancing, except for taking one turn each with Edith and then with Sylvia, whom he carried in his good arm and spun round, making her giggle as her light brown curls flew about. The presence of the children was both amusing and challenging, as the adults did their best to avoid suddenly colliding with them. The only person who seemed to object to having them underfoot was Rosamund's guest, a rather stiff, middle-aged gentleman named Sir Richard Carlisle, but he soon busied himself in animated conversation with Matthew about the opportunities for redevelopment in light of the decline of the great estates, and only then did he seem to relax and actually enjoy himself.

"Honestly," Violet muttered, as Robert turned her about the floor. "Where does Rosamund  _find_  these people?"

Robert shot Matthew and Sir Richard—and Mary, who had just then sidled up to Sir Richard with a shark-like smile—a discomfited frown. "I don't know, but I'm glad Matthew and Mary are willing to entertain him. The man sets my teeth on edge."

Violet pursed her lips in agreement as they moved on.

Several people stood watching on the outskirts of the dance floor.

"It's just not the same without Lady Sybil," Thomas commented, earning a sharp warning look from Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes, and also from Mr and Mrs Bates, who stood beside them. "What?" Thomas shrugged. "I like Lady Sybil. She was always kind to me and made me laugh as we danced." He looked wistful a moment. "I made sure to dance with her every year."

"So did Mr Branson," Mr Bates observed with a wry smirk.

Thomas scowled and Mr Carson curled his lip, which made Mrs Hughes roll her eyes.

"Come along," she announced, touching Mr Carson's sleeve. "I have no wish to waste this evening on pointless disagreements."

Mr Carson's brows drew down in surprised confusion and she gave him an exasperated look.

"Well, the evening is running along, and we haven't yet taken a turn," she observed.

"Mrs Hughes," Mr Carson uttered, half in shock. "Are you asking me to dance?"

"Well,  _one_  of us had to get the ball rolling."

Mr Carson looked properly flustered at the breach in protocol, but as Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows, he collected himself and offered her his arm. "Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me, Mrs Hughes?"

"If you insist," she answered, pursing her lips in suppressed amusement as she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Any remnant of disapproval on Mr Carson's face quickly faded, however, as the previous song drew to a close and he led her out on to the floor.

Thomas looked as though he might gag, but his ruminations were suddenly interrupted by three shouting children who clustered before him, tugging on his sleeves and jacket.

"Make us fly! Make us fly!" Edward demanded.

"Me first!" Harry said.

"No, me!" a bouncing Sylvia exclaimed.

Thomas waggled his finger over them as if deciding who was the most worthy, then suddenly swooped down and scooped up Sylvia, who shrieked in delight as he spun and swung her about, winding his way along the edge of the dance floor with the two boys happily in tow.

John and Anna Bates, now left alone, stood watching, half-surprised and half-amused at this uncharacteristic display, and then they chuckled together.

Robert approached them, his colour high and his breathing slightly up, holding two glasses of punch. At his offer, they quickly accepted the drinks.

"Thank you, my lord," Bates said.

"I meant to say congratulations." Robert grinned, glancing between them. "Lady Mary just confirmed the news. I'm so delighted for you!"

"Thank you, my lord," Anna replied, ducking her head slightly as she grinned back.

"So have you had enough of Wightstead yet?" Robert asked. "Are you ready to come back?"

Bates and Anna exchanged a smile.

"I regret to say, my lord," Bates answered slowly, raising one eyebrow, "that we are quite happy at Wightstead."

"Oh, well." Robert grinned, although it seemed a bit forced. "There's always next year."

"Very true," Bates returned, although a matching light of understanding glittered in his eyes.

"And don't forget," Anna put in cheerfully. "We'll be back for a whole month in the summer."

"I look forward to it," Robert agreed with a warm smile. "You'll take care of yourselves, won't you?"

At their nods, he drifted off to greet Mrs Patmore and congratulate her on the excellent spread.

* * *

"I just think you could eventually lower the finder's fee that you offer Murray," Mary said, taking her seat beside Matthew on the sofa, nearer the fireplace. The muffled sounds of the Servants' Ball continued on outside the library doors, but inside the room, the fire crackled in the hearth, the orange and yellow flames sending flickering light over the burgundy hues in the furniture and walls. "After all, we won't be wholly dependent upon him for clients, not if Evelyn and Charles also begin sending people our way."

"Oh, there you two are," Robert said, as he walked in. "I've just seen Mama and Cousin Isobel off." He came over and sank down on to the sofa opposite them with a tired, but satisfied, smile. "Were you just discussing Mr Napier?"

"Yes, Papa," Mary replied. "He and his boss, a Mr Charles Blake, are business associates of ours."

Robert smiled. "I forget, you're practically a full partner in Matthew and Tom's firm now, aren't you?"

"What's this 'practically'?" Mary arched an eyebrow.

Beside her, Matthew smirked, settling back against the sofa as he crossed his legs. "Oh—I meant to thank you," he said to Robert. "Shrimpie told me that you've been putting in a good word for us at your club."

Robert glanced away with a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. Everyone talks of their estates, and since most seem to be struggling, mentioning your innovations here is the natural next step."

"Still, thank you," Matthew replied. "We've been receiving a pretty regular stream of enquiries."

Robert nodded, his eyes drifting towards the fireplace again. "I'm glad to hear it." He gave them a tight smile. "Downton wouldn't be in such a hopeful state of play if it weren't for you." Robert's eyes met Mary's. "If it weren't for you  _both_. If you hadn't prompted me to approach him..." Robert shook his head.

Mary looked down at Matthew's knees with a slight frown. "It was such a dark time," she murmured. "I didn't know what  _else_  to do." Her fingers drifted to where his hand rested on his thigh, and he grasped them, pressing his lips together.

Looking up, Matthew smiled. "Let us take comfort in the knowledge that God has brought good out of it."

"Amen to that," Robert answered, then twisted to glance back as Cora entered the room.

"Edward is finally asleep," she announced, crossing to where Robert sat. She glanced at Mary and Matthew with a smile. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm beat." Looking at Robert, she asked, "Are you coming up?"

"Yes." He exhaled a long sigh and pushed to his feet, giving everyone a tired smile. "It's been a long—but very good—day."

"I didn't ask earlier, but I should have." Cora paused, folding her hands and turning to Mary and Matthew. "How was the wedding? Was it lovely?"

Matthew smiled and Mary nodded.

"Everything was done properly and in order," Mary replied, then gave her father a kind of triumphant smile. "And Sybil was  _glowing_."

Robert's smile was tight.

"When will they be back?" Cora asked.

"We expected them home today, actually," Matthew answered. "Mrs Parks is there to see to them."

Cora smiled. "How  _is_  Ethel doing?"

"Very well," Mary said. "It's such a relief to finally have a good cook! She needs to expand her repertoire, of course, but that will come in time."

"Yes, it will." Cora nodded. "Well, good night. Thank you for coming all the way out just for the Servants' Ball."

"I would never have missed it," Mary replied.

With a soft chuckle, Robert nodded to them and escorted his wife from the room. The music and the sounds of unabated dancing briefly echoed through the library, then cut off as the door swung closed.

"There'll be a few thick heads in the morning," Matthew observed.

"No doubt they think it's worth it."

"Mmm." Matthew hummed and touched her cheek, drawing her towards him for a soft kiss. When they parted, he put his arm around her and she settled against him, resting her forehead on his neck and her hand on his chest.

"I've been thinking," Mary murmured.

"Hm?"

"We're asking quite a lot of Bates and Anna and Mrs Parks when we expect them to keep Sybil and Tom's secret."

"I don't think any of them have a reason to betray it."

"No, it's not that," Mary answered. "But keeping a secret, particularly one this important...it requires effort and care. In this case, we're asking them to hide the truth for many years."

"So what are you thinking?"

"I think we should give them all a belated Christmas bonus, and make a yearly tradition of it."

"But let's not say it's for Tom and Sybil's sake. I shouldn't like word to get back to them."

"No, of course not."

"Then I agree."

Watching the fire, they sighed contentedly in unison and then chuckled, and Mary drew back with a sly smile. "Tomorrow might be the last morning in a long while when we can take a late breakfast..."

Matthew's eyes twinkled as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What do you suggest?"

She smirked and started to turn away. "Well, if I must spell it out, then never mind."

Grinning, he sat up and took his time kissing her until she started to giggle softly.

"Come," he said as he broke away, and, taking her hand, he drew her up from the sofa and she followed him willingly, a bright smile lighting up her face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...and with this, we have reached the end of Part III: AMBITION. Thanks for sticking with the story for this long! It will conclude with the final novel, Part IV: CHANGE.
> 
>  **Warning: Chapter 40 will not be published for some time.** It's going to take a while. Thanks to all you kind readers/reviewers, for continuing to show interest!
> 
> —
> 
> I do not own any _Downton Abbey_ properties, nor do I make any money from the writing of this story.
> 
> Dialogue and scene excerpts, written by Julian Fellowes, are taken from _Downton Abbey Series 1 - 6 (2010-2015) © Carnival Film & Television, Masterpiece_.
> 
> Further sources that I have drawn on can be found in [the fanfiction.net edition of this story](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10078078/1/Trust-and-Providence).
> 
> This story is released under the GPL/CC BY: verbatim copying and distribution of this entire work are permitted worldwide, without royalty, in any medium, provided attribution is preserved.
> 
> —
> 
> Gratia to: my wonderful beta readers, Lala Kate, La Donna Ingenua, tbborrell, Jean, Rap541, Naniee, New Hogfan, alliluna, lilyrowan1, Apollo888, patsan, and brianna-xox for their generosity in donating a significant portion of their time, and for helping me to improve my writing in significant ways. My friends Patricia, Carole, Dave, Josh, and Jamie have also given me excellent feedback. All of their encouragement and suggestions have been invaluable! Also a shout-out to Silvestria and OrangeShipper for their Britpicking tips and willingness to answer my questions, to Mercury Gray for her period-appropriate book recommendations, and to rebeccathehistorian for her enormous help with finding research sources. Naniee, Dave, lilyrowan1, and Klarinette49 have helped me to improve the French language and culture used in this story. Klarinette49 also translated the German. My chiropractor, Dr. Christopher Hauck, has consulted on Matthew's medical condition and recovery. Some wonderful librarians, Linda and Liz, have helped me find several of the key resources that I've drawn on while writing. Finally, these readers, because of their thoughtful comments, have prompted me to add content to the story that I had initially overlooked: AngelQueen, golden12, New Hogfan, Audrey C, judyl1, CanuckGirl2, darkblueyank, Klarinette49, Naniee, ScarletCourt, and Atomix330. Additionally, to all the anonymous reviewers who have helped me think through the Sybil medical plot, a huge thanks! Enormous thanks also, of course, to Julian Fellowes, Michelle Dockery, and Dan Stevens, for obvious reasons, and to all the folks involved in creating this beloved show. I happily owe you a debt that I can never repay. :) Thanks to the Lord, for doing all the real storytelling and helping me to learn to write by faith :), and to my lovely husband, for supporting my passions and engaging with me on the finer points of the plot. I'm so grateful that I get to do this! What a joy it is to write. :-D


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